


Lost and Found

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick and Billy get lost. And then find each other all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine.
> 
> A/N: I wrote this fic a long time ago, but finally managed to get postfallen to beta it for me. I've never been sure how much I like this fic, but it seems silly not to post it. You’ve been warned. Also, there is torture here. Lots of it. Again, you’ve been warned. I’ve got this broken into about four parts (and an epilogue) mostly just to make posting easier for me. I’ll post regularly Thursdays and Mondays until it’s up in about two weeks :)

Rick is almost beyond panting when he gets there. His chest aches and he can barely feel his legs. Michael catches him by his arm as he staggers through the doorway, and he blinks up at him, almost too surprised to know what to say.

He’s been running so long, working so hard, with his eye on this moment. Now that it’s here, he’s almost too exhausted to realize it.

Still, he takes a gulping breath, trying to clear the fog in his head. Everything hurts, and his consciousness flickers.

But Michael’s hand is steady, his voice demanding. There’s a note of intensity underlining the words, almost girded by what Rick might call panic. “Martinez, where’s Collins?”

Rick swallows hard and remembers. It’s a simple question and it has a simple answer, but there’s no easy way to say it nonetheless. 

Breathing ragged, Rick fixes his eyes on Michael so he understands. “I lost him,” he says, as his legs give out, the last of his energy dissipating. Michael’s expression is unwavering and Rick tries to explain what he doesn’t know how to grasp. “I tried, but couldn’t get him back. I lost him.”

The words resonate with painful veracity as the darkness finally claims him and he collapses in Michael’s arms.

-o-

“I found it,” Rick says.

It’s Monday morning at the office, and he’s been here since six, double checking his facts and following up with his contacts.

Casey is at his desk, looking bored with the day already. Michael has put on his glasses to peruse the paper while Billy seems to be scrambling to drink a cup of coffee and sift through his paperwork.

They all look at him, but none of them stop what they’re doing.

Rick wets his lips, swallowing as he buoys his courage. He’s worked for the CIA for months now, but he still feels like the new guy. Probably because they all still treat him like the new guy. He’s played some critical roles, but he’s still looking for that first mission to call his own.

And he’s found it.

“I found a lead on the drug leak coming out of southern Africa,” he says, trying not to sound too proud and mostly failing.

Casey stares at him. Billy tilts his head. Michael lifts his eyebrows. “You mean the leak that the CIA has been trying and failing to track for nearly six months?”

Rick nods with small, rapid movements.

Casey snorts. “You mean you managed to do what agencies around the world have tried and failed to do?”

“On a Monday morning, no less?” Billy adds with due skepticism.

Rick girds himself with another nod.

“That’s one hell of a way to start the week, Martinez,” Michael says, not quite skeptical but certainly with reservations. “Can you prove it?”

Rick’s heart skips a beat and he pulls his files together. “I think I can.”

-o-

It’s nearly an hour later. Rick has gone over his intel. He’s explained his tracking process. He’s answered questions and gone over satellite photos and shown how all of his facts are cross- referenced and backed up.

When he’s done his team is sitting at the table, apparently deep in thought. Casey looks like he sort of wants to kill Rick, but that’s really not so unusual, and Billy chews on his lip while he considers it all.

Michael taps his pen on the table, eyes narrowed as he looks over the file. “Well,” he says finally, after what seems like an eternity. “I think you did.”

Rick’s face breaks into a smile that he doesn’t even try to contain.

-o-

Getting the green light on the mission is surprisingly easy. The burden of proof is on the ODS, of course, but the intel is convincing and it’s not hard to see that Higgins wants this as a feather in his cap.

“So, Operative Martinez,” Higgins says from behind his desk. “Now that you’ve got me convinced that we have a location on the most notorious drug cartel in southern African, tell me just how you intend on shutting it down.”

Rick’s heart flutters. He’s been on missions and he’s improvised on missions, but this is the first time he’s been given the go ahead. Michael has watched him every step of the planning process, of course, and Billy and Casey are never far with helpful and not-so-helpful suggestions.

It’s a good plan.

Still, as he wets his lips and begins, Rick’s still nervous. But as the words come out, confident and sure, he feels like he’s finally found himself where he’s supposed to be.

-o-

The mission is actually pretty simple.

“No amount of subterfuge will get us in on this short of a time frame,” Rick explains, handing each of his teammates mission folders. They’re still hot, freshly copied and bound. “The only way in is bribery, plain and simple.”

Michael nods. “We buy off one of the guards and use his credentials to get us inside.”

“They’ll be on to us quickly,” Casey warns.

“And whoever we pay off will be essentially signing their own death warrant,” Billy adds.

“We know,” Rick says. “Which is why we’ll be offering full protection and immunity for whoever we manage to turn.”

“It’s not exactly comforting to think of a terrorist getting a free ride into the United States,” Casey grumbles.

“It’s a bit more comforting when you think about shutting down the heart of the major drug center in southern Africa,” Billy counters.

“It’s all in the compromises,” Michael agrees. “And really, that’s the least of our problems.”

“Right,” Rick says. “The problem will really start once we get inside the compound.”

“And I assume you have a plan?” Casey says, looking at him blandly.

“We’ll keep it simple,” Rick says. “We can’t take down the entire operation in one sting, so we’re not going to try.”

“But we will take out the heart,” Michael continues for him.

Rick nods. “All we need is a list of the client contacts,” he explains. “If we know who they work with, then we can compromise their enterprise.”

“And the giant falls all of its own accord,” Billy concludes with a smile. He nods readily. “The power of capitalism. I like it.”

“It’s still going to be a tough mission,” Casey reminds them all.

Rick doesn’t disagree. He shrugs, and asks, “Since when have our missions been anything but?”

-o-

On the flight over, Rick is nervous. He’s packed and he’s prepared but he can’t stop himself from going over the details.

Next to him, Billy laughs. “You really are worried about this one, aren’t you?” he asks.

Rick jumps slightly and looks up, trying to hide his obvious uncertainty. “It’s just--I’ve never planned a mission before.”

Billy nods understandingly. “The first one is always the hardest,” he says. Then he leans closer, lowering his voice. “And some words to the wise: it’ll never go just as you plan it.”

Rick nods back and swallows. “So then how do you deal with it?”

Shrugging, Billy sits back a little. “You do the best you can,” he says. “You plan and you prep and you keep track of all your variables. Don’t lose sight of the big picture and know how to compromise the details, and things usually turn out okay.”

Rick lets the words settle and tries to believe it. Then he blinks at Billy again. “Usually?”

“Ah,” Billy says, pushing Rick’s shoulder gently. “On the way back, ask me about my first mission and you’ll see what I mean.”

Somehow, this is encouraging and terrifying all at once.

-o-

On the ground in Africa, they have to work quickly. They’ve already identified several targets to buy out, but approaching them is a tentative thing. Offering the wrong man a bribe could compromise the entire operation before it even begins. It’s a careful balance of making headway while still hedging bets.

They’ve split up the names, and after a few failed contacts, Rick finds himself with Billy, meeting a middle aged security guard with high level clearance and a pregnant wife.

“This place – it is no life for her or my child,” he says. 

“Generally a life of crime and evil does put a hinder on one’s family time,” Billy agrees.

The man frowns.

Rick hurries to continue. “We can help you with that, though,” he says.

The man looks cautious but he doesn’t move away, a hint of eager possibility in his eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

And Rick knows they’ve found their man.

-o-

Still, Rick also finds a problem.

Back at their motel, Rick paces the floor. Billy is in a chair; Casey lounges on a bed. Michael is half perched on the dresser, arms crossed as he watches Rick walk.

Rick shakes his head. “It’s too risky,” he says.

“It was always risky,” Michael reminds him.

Rick keeps going. “The original plan called for three people on the inside,” he says. “One to get the information, two to keep watch.”

“Two can be a rather superfluous number,” Billy says. “If we get tagged while on the inside, we’re going to need a lot more than two to stay alive.”

“The entire point of the plan is _not_ to get caught,” Casey says. “Fewer people minimize the risk of exposure.”

There’s some sense to all that – Rick knows it, he sees it--but he still doesn’t like the idea. “But if we do need to blast our way out--”

“Then we’re probably already dead,” Michael says.

Rick pauses, and looks at his teammates uncertainly. They’re all looking at him, and it’s clear they all feel the same way. They saw this loose end coming a mile away and it hasn’t even made them blink.

This should be encouraging. He’s not going to be asking anyone to go in blind.

But it still unsettles him. Because this is his intel and his mission. This is his game and the thought of anything going wrong is more than he knows how to deal with.

Rick takes a breath and then another. He nods, resolute, finding his courage and holding it firmly. “Okay,” he says. “So Billy and I will continue into the facility.”

“I still think I should be the one to accompany you,” Casey says somewhat dourly. He looks at Billy. “No offense.”

Billy shrugs. “You have earned the nickname human weapon with good reason,” he says.

Rick shakes his head, feeling his confidence swell. “Like you said, the fight inside is about stealth, not power,” he says. “Our mole and his family are more at risk. That’s where we need our heavy hitters.”

“So, first we take out the security camera at the west entrance, where our mole is stationed,” Michael says.

“Wind bursts across the plains are not uncommon,” Rick reports.

“Then you and Billy gain access through legitimate channels,” Casey continues.

“It’ll take them about ten minutes to get cameras working again, and only five to have a team on site to investigate,” Rick confirms.

“Which is all the time we need to make our way in and pick a rather circuitous route to the records,” Billy adds.

“Which we know by location from our source,” Rick says.

“Then Casey and I show up as government inspectors,” he says.

“And you point the finger at our mole and take him into custody,” Rick continues.

“Which will freak the security staff at the compound out and divert their attention from the real trouble brewing,” Casey explains.

“Exactly,” Rick says, pacing again with nervous excitement. “Which should give us plenty of time to steal the records and make a clean exit.”

“While we take our mole back to a secure location,” Michael says.

“You’ll have to lose your tail, though,” Rick says. “If they find your location, the entire thing will fall apart.”

Michael looks at Casey. Casey shakes his head. “Trust us, it’s nothing we can’t handle,” he says.

“And the higher ups will be so concerned with tracking their lost guard that they won’t have the time or attention to devote to any anomalies on the base,” Billy says with a grin. “It’s a brilliant plan, gents.”

Rick stops and thinks about it. “Maybe not brilliant,” he says. Then he looks back at the others, almost hopeful. “But I think it might just work.”

“In our book,” Michael says. “That’s definitely close enough.”

-o-

Rick spends most of the mission thinking about all the ways it can go wrong. When he and Billy are at the checkpoint, he worries that someone will overrule their mark and deny them access. Once they get past the gate, he worries someone will stop them and look over their credentials again. As they enter the building, he worries that their manipulation of the security camera will fail and that he and Billy are on candid camera. When the security detail goes to investigate the security camera malfunction, Rick worries that they won’t believe that Casey and Michael are who they say they are.

It can go wrong at any point. Michael and Casey can be outed. Someone can open fire. Michael not be able to lose the tail. Someone on the inside might look twice at Rick and Billy. The files might be harder to find that he suspects.

But it doesn’t. They get in and no one looks twice. In the records room, Rick hurries, scanning the documents digitally and finalizing the transmission. From his post at the door, Billy doesn’t even have to say anything and by the time they’re on their way out, Rick is starting to believe that maybe this has worked.

Billy doesn’t take time to comment as they make their way out, but the barely contained smile on his face says enough. In their car, they’re driving to the checkpoint and Rick can still see the commotion that Michael and Casey’s dramatic arrest must have caused. There are security guards everywhere, guns slung on tense shoulders.

Rick’s stomach churns a little, but Billy keeps his head high. As he stops at the gate, he grins up at the guard who stares back at him hard.

“Who are you?” he demands.

“Quality consultants,” Billy says without hesitation. 

“ID please,” the guard barks.

Billy provides his. The man looks over the list. He looks at Billy.

Rick swallows. He glances out across the checkpoint to the free, open road no more than twenty feet away.

This is the last step. This is the only hurdle left.

Reluctantly, the guard hands Billy back his ID.

Billy puts it in his pocket. He’s about to say something--about the weather, about the commotion, Rick doesn’t know and never finds out--when the guard raises his gun and points it through the window.

And suddenly nothing is close enough.

-o-

It happens quickly. The guards start yelling, one and then another. By the time he and Billy are manhandled out of the car, there’s a whole unit surrounding them, each member screaming louder than the last. Rick’s linguistic skills struggle to keep up with the rapid fire orders, but he makes out _traitors_ and _no coincidence_ and _likely threat_ in the melee.

Billy is being pressed against the far side of the car, legs spread apart as he’s patted. Rick holds his hands up and tries to say something, but no one is listening. There’s a gun being waved in his face and he’s being herded against the car door.

Hot, heavy hands run down his body and empty out his pockets. Across the car, Billy meets his eyes grimly.

It’s a lot to take in, but Rick reminds himself that their cover is still technically in place. The guards are suspicious and with reason. The CIA techs are paid to flesh out background stories, so all the phone calls should end up at legitimate sources. They should be confirmed and released and it will all be okay.

As someone pulls out Rick’s wallet, he takes a steadying breath and tells it to himself again: They’re going to be okay.

The guards let Billy up. He pushes himself from the car and starts to turn, smiling and hands up. He’s going to say something.

He never gets the chance.

The butt of a gun rams hard across his face and he goes down just that fast.

Rick’s about to protest, about to go help him when a gun presses into his back and holds him very, very still.

Two guards bend over and hoist Billy up. From his vantage point, Rick can see Billy’s eyes blinking but his feet don’t seem to be working quite yet. He stumbles as the guards drag him, head dangling forward as he’s pulled haphazardly toward the entrance.

The guards with Rick are gentler. As they pull him away from the car, the gun stays positioned, pressed into his back as he’s marched after Billy towards the compound.

-o-

In Rick’s mind, he can still hear his teacher back on the Farm.  
 _  
“It’s not as common as the movies have you think. Most operatives, if they’re careful and good, will never face full on captivity and torture.”  
_  
Rick remembers taking comfort in that.   
_  
“If you are captured, stick to your cover story at all costs. You must believe it and you must value your own life last. Your life is not more important than the missions or the country you have given yourself to serve.”  
_  
Rick remembers believing in that.  
 _  
“There are techniques to survive torture. And I will teach them to you, but no one can teach you how to use them. You only discover that in your own times of need. Some of you will succeed; others will fail. That’s where heroes are made.”  
_  
Rick remembers knowing he’d be a hero.

But with his hands bound, on his knees in a warm, damp room, suddenly there’s no comfort, no belief, no ideas of heroism. Just a man with a knife and two men with guns at the door and no way out.

-o-

It’s funny, because they don’t start with questions.

In fact, they don’t say anything at all. The guards at the door remain impassive, erect with guns in hand. The other man, the one in front of Rick with the knife, eyes him coldly before backhanding him hard across the face.

Rick expects a question to follow, or at least an accusation. But the man’s face is hard and unyielding and as he puts a boot into Rick’s stomach, it’s clear that violence is the only introduction he’s going to get.

The blow to his stomach leaves him winded, literally reeling as his chair slides dangerously across the floor, tipping a little before righting itself with a precarious clatter. There is no reprieve when a punch lands directly across his face this time, dimming his vision and splitting his lip.

He’s sputtering, blinking rapidly to clear the spots from his vision. Spitting blood, he looks up.

The man is watching him carefully and the coolness on his face gives way to a smile. He rounds Rick, like a predator stalking its prey, and Rick tightens his jaw and grits his teeth as he tries not to show the fear building in his gut.

The man still says nothing as he approaches, holding the knife carefully in front of him so Rick can see it glint in the light of the bare bulb overhead.

It’s unnerving, which Rick figures is the point, because he can see the blade as it inches toward his skin. His arm prickles with goosebumps and he holds his breath, but nothing prepares him for the first slice across his forearm.

The knife is sharp and slides easily through the fabric of his shirt and the layers of his skin. Blood blossoms in its wake, spilling quickly onto his skin and staining the torn shirt.

Rick takes a breath and holds it, remembering everything he can from his training. He steels himself and mentally tells himself that he can do this. He _can_ do this.

The next slice cuts the other arm and is followed by a quick stab to his thigh. Rick can’t help but grunt, squeezing his eyes shut from the pain. There’s no reprieve as the knife slashes at his chest this time, cutting through his shirt and into the soft, giving flesh underneath.

This continues without pattern or purpose, the knife cutting until Rick lets out a scream.

There’s a pause. Panting, Rick looks up. The man is smiling again, eyes focused and gleaming.

There’s still no question as he cuts again and Rick screams his wordless answer to the walls around him.

-o-

It doesn’t end.

He’s bleeding and he’s lightheaded but it doesn’t end. The man shows no intention of stopping, no interest in pushing for more. Rick thinks to spill his cover story anyway, but he somehow doubts it will be an effective deterrent at this point. These people either know who he is or don’t care who he is.

Rick’s going to die either way.

It’s a surreal, cold revelation that settles uneasily in his stomach. He doesn’t have much more skin to give and he knows that the cuts, while painful, are superficial, something which can only last so long. The point of torture is usually to obtain information. Since Rick has been asked nothing, he can only assume that his captor is hoping he’ll say something of his own accord or that the torture is just a means to soften him up for when the real questioning begins.

Which means this isn’t quite torture. This is basically foreplay.

Either way, Rick is going to die.

He has to stay strong, and he wills himself not to cry. He’s losing that battle when the door opens.

The man pauses, looking back at the new man. They’re dressed in similar clothing, each armed with comparable weaponry. The new man whispers into the knifeman’s ear, and together they eye Rick with critical and appraising looks.

His captor nods his head and says something to the guards. The guards approach wordlessly, hefting him up under his armpits and dragging him along until his feet manage to find their place on the ground. He stumbles out of the room, jerked harshly to the side as the guards march him through the halls. 

Behind him, the door closes, and just like that it’s over.

-o-

Rick thinks he should be keeping a mental record of the corridors, but his head is hurting too much. He manages to notice a few right turns and then a left before it’s all he can do to keep his feet moving while he’s dragged. He’s trying to get his bearings again when he’s pulled to an abrupt stop and unceremoniously shoved through a door.

Without the guards’ support, Rick crumbles, hitting the cement floor hard on his hands and knees. It takes him a minute to catch his breath and when he finally manages to lift his head, he realizes the door is closed and he’s alone.

That much is something of a relief. The pressing of metal on his flesh was exhausting--mentally and physically. The presence of his captors had been unnerving. This newfound solitude is a welcome reprieve.

At least, on some level. On another level, Rick knows this really isn’t much better. The good news is that he’s not going to die immediately. The bad news is that he’s in a cement cell with presumably no way out. Which means he’s probably still going to die. Just not right away.

Dying later is still preferable to dying now, he supposes, since there is the chance of escape or rescue.

Which, given the state of his headache and the weakness in his limbs, Rick’s inclined to think rescue is a more likely option. Unless, of course, he somehow manages to rally enough strength to break out of this room, overpower the guards, and make a dead run to freedom across the scorching savanna.

So yeah, rescue.

Sighing, Rick pushes himself back into a sitting position, easing himself up slowly against the wall. It’s not much in the way of comfort, but it feels better than before. Situated, he takes a few cleansing breaths and looks around his cell in earnest.

It’s small – no more than five by five – and there is nothing distinguishing about it. Each wall is identical to the last, with uneven cement floor punctuated by a single drain in the middle of the room. There is a door with a rusted metal vent above it.

There’s another bare bulb in the ceiling but no sign of a light switch on the interior. From his vantage point, he can see the dead bolt in the locked position.

Rick sighs again and closes his eyes. He needs to figure a way out of this. He can hope for rescue, but he shouldn’t count on it. He needs to be proactive. He can’t give in. There is no telling how long he’ll have, and he should use every moment.

And Rick wants to. He really does. But the cuts on his body hurt and his head aches. The exhaustion is settling in even as he takes pained breaths into the stillness. Eyes closed, he listens for the sounds of movement in the hallway and drifts away into the darkness for just a little more reprieve.

-o-

When the door opens it startles him. Rick jars awake and is trying to find his sense of where he is when he hears a meaty thud and a pained grunt.

Just that fast, the door is closed, and Rick is just getting his vision in order when he sees Billy’s form piled in the middle of the floor.

Even though his own body is still sore, Rick finds new strength to move. “Billy,” he calls, scrambling across the floor. “Hey.”

The older operative doesn’t move, and he doesn’t resist when Rick rolls him on his back. Billy’s eyes are open, but seem hazy, and he manages a tight smile as his eyes meet Rick’s. 

“Cozy accommodations you have here,” Billy quips with effort, his voice strained.

Rick laughs, mostly because it feels so good to hear another human voice. He wets his lips and shakes his head. “And such hospitality, too,” he jokes.

Billy’s smile widens even as his brow creases with pain. His body is trembling and Rick gets a good look at the Scottish man for the first time. His shirt is in tatters – worse than Rick’s own –and the blood seems to be everywhere. A cursory glance tells Rick that most of the cuts are superficial – most like Rick’s own – but the colorful bruising down one side of his face is something else. Worse than that, there’s one jagged rip down Billy’s right arm and Rick doesn’t have to look hard to see that it is a substantial wound.

“What happened?” Rick asks.

Billy struggles to a sitting position and Rick helps him to the wall to prop him up. Swallowing, Billy takes a ragged breath. “Our friends seem quite fond of their knives,” he says.

Rick winces. “I know that,” he says. “But all mine are superficial. What did you do to make them so mad?”

Billy smiles briefly and he shuts his eyes, resting his head against the wall. “My sparkling personality, I would wager,” he says.

“Did they ask you anything?” Rick wonders.

Billy shakes his head, still taking shallow breaths. “They’re not real talkative.”

“So what do they want?” Rick asks.

Billy opens his eyes and looks at Rick plainly. 

Rick feels sheepish and nods. “Yeah, I guess,” he says.

“It’s all good, though,” Billy drawls, his voice heavy as it slurs slightly. 

Rick frowns. “How’s that?”

Billy’s smile spreads for just a second. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” he says, and his attention seemed to drift as his eyes slip closed and don’t reopen.

Rick waits for a moment, his heart thudding in his chest. He grasps Billy’s good arm – or his better arm, at any rate – squeezing it gently. “Hey,” he hisses. “Hey!”

Billy’s eyes flutter open and his entire face seems to put effort into focusing on Rick. 

“What are we going to do?” he demands, and it feels silly and childish, but he’s fresh out of ideas and if there’s ever been a time when Rick has wanted some guidance, it’s now.

Face lined with exhaustion, Billy offers him a lopsided half-smile. “Two guards in the hall. No likely surveillance in this room. We’ve already been pegged as traitors; they’ll beat us until we are so relieved to answer a question, we spill everything,” he says. He shakes his head. “We hold strong and look for any opportunity.”

It’s what Rick has already figured out. He shakes his head helplessly. “And in the meantime?”

Billy’s body seems to sag and his eyelids grow heavy as he struggles to hold Rick’s gaze. “Rest,” he murmurs as his eyes slip shut again. “Rest.”

This time, Billy’s body seems to go completely lax and Rick doesn’t have the heart to try to rouse him again. Instead, he settles himself against the wall, his shoulder touching Billy’s.

He sighs, looking around the room before look back at Billy, whose long legs were stretched across the small space. His own energy levels are still low and as he mentally catalogues the lack of exits, he can’t stop himself from drifting back into sleep, his head lolling against Billy’s as unconsciousness claims him again.

-o-

The door opens again, and this time Rick is awake enough to protest as the guards jerk him hard. Billy flails weakly at the commotion and Rick is prepared to fight when he realizes that the guards haven’t come for him. After pushing Rick aside, the guards have turned to Billy, hoisting the Scotsman to his feet and forcibly dragging him toward the door.

“Wait,” Rick says with a sudden spike of panic. It’s hard to be locked in an enemy cell; it’s a sudden terror to be locked there alone. His heart thuds in his chest and his throat tightens. “Wait, no!”

No one listens to him. Maybe Rick should expect this, but it doesn’t change the way it makes him feel. 

Billy is stumbling, feet barely working as he’s moved against his will. It’s clear that Billy is only semiconscious, and Rick knows the Scottish operative isn’t ready for another round of whatever is waiting for him.

Rick moves forward, the need to do something pressing him past his fear. “Where are you taking him?” he asks, tries to demand, but he doesn’t quite pull it off, no matter what his intentions. 

There’s still no answer and Rick charges the door after them, desperate to get one last look at Billy before he’s taken.

One guard stops short, holding his hand out. For a second, Rick’s ready to fight this. Cover story or not, he thinks he can fight this. He can make sure he and Billy stick together, that they have at least that much comfort. He can’t just let them take Billy.

But the guard lifts up a gun, holding it squarely at Rick. 

It’s not a punch, but it’s just as effective at stopping Rick in his tracks. He looks imploringly at the man, tries to hold his eye contact. He tries to see the person behind the uniform, the humanity behind the gun. “Please,” Rick says. “Where are you taking him?”

There’s a flicker in the guard’s face but no indication that the man even understands him. But Rick is standing with his hands up and his face open, begging to be understood.

“Take me instead,” Rick offers. “He’s hurt worse than I am. He’s no good to you. Take me.”

It’s stupid to say, and Rick knows it. It goes against everything he’s learned. Protecting your team is paramount, but throwing yourself into peril just leaves your partner more vulnerable. It’s not a practical solution to finding an effective means of ultimate escape.

But this isn’t a practical situation. This isn’t some training exercise. This is he and Billy, locked in a terrorist compound, both hurting and alone. This is Billy, too hurt to stand being taken to God knows what. This is about Rick having to stay alone in a cell while his friend could be hurt, could be tortured, could _die._

None of the training matters. None of the training makes any difference to the pull of emotions inside of him. Right then, he’ll bargain just about anything to get Billy back, to get them both out alive.

The guard lifts his chin and sneers, holding his aim even as he slams the door in Rick’s face.

It’s a stark reality, being alone. Billy is gone – he’s _gone_ – and it occurs to Rick now that he doesn’t know how long Billy will be gone. If he’ll be back. If it’ll be Rick’s turn next.

For a moment, Rick can only stare at the wall. Just like that, he’s alone again. His hope teeters precariously. He doesn’t like to think he’s prone to despair, but he has to admit, it’s pretty hard not to feel it creeping up inside of him. As far as things go, this is about as hopeless as it gets, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do.

Sit here? Try to find a way out? Endure? Escape?

None of them sound ideal to Rick. Still, he forces himself to breathe, blinking back tears as the desperation swells in him again.

And he still doesn’t know why they’re being held. He doesn’t know what tipped them off. Rick doesn’t know anything except that they’re screwed.

Pacing toward the walls, Rick chews his fingernail. They’re screwed. He tries not to think of it like that but the fact is he’s not sure there’s another way to think about it. Their covers may be compromised, and Casey and Michael have no way back in.

But their intel is safe, which is something, but that’s about the only silver lining. That should be enough. Rick’s always said the mission matters most. 

Then again, Rick’s never been locked in an enemy compound with impending torture and doom and no clear way out.

All things considered, Rick’s not sure if the silver lining is much to assuage being stuck inside this storm cloud.

His team will come for him, though, Rick reminds himself as he walks around the room. His body aches and his head hurts and Billy’s gone, but the team will come. He feels alone, but he’s not. He’s not and neither is Billy.

Rick trusts his team enough to believe that.

He sighs, looking up at the four cement walls and tells himself he believes it.

-o-

This time, Rick stays awake. 

It hurts less, which helps, but seeing Billy and then seeing Billy taken has reminded Rick what’s really on the line here. While there is still ample reason for self-pity, feeling sorry for himself isn’t going to help the situation. Neither is resting or wondering what went wrong.

The fact is simple: something did go wrong. Rick can’t be sure what but he has to operate under the assumption that everything is compromised. The key now is to stay true. He can’t divulge anything; his cover is important even when it’s gone. And, more than that, he needs to find some kind of advantage.

Obviously, a full on escape route would be ideal, but Rick’s not quite so naive as to think that’s entirely likely. Even if he finds a way out of this cell, he has the guards and the winding corridors of the compound. Not to mention an entire savanna to cross before he finds anything resembling safety and/or civilization.

However, that dim picture aside, if his team is coming for them, then Rick needs to be prepared. Any kind of extraction will undoubtedly be a delicate situation and any kind of assistance Rick can provide from the inside will only enable things to go smoother. Or at least, quicker. 

Either way, it might help their chances at success.

Which, given the current situation, seems rather important.

In all of this, Rick is rather resolved.

He just wishes that he knew what he was looking for. 

Because yeah, it sounds well and good to look for weaknesses in the security, but the fact is he’s still locked in a cement box, so his point of view on the situation is somewhat limited.

Still, Rick has to stay the course. It’s not like he has any alternatives. Sitting there idly will only remind him of how screwed he is and how Billy’s not there anymore.

So Rick runs a mental check. Yes, the walls are cement. They seem thick, if the echo of his taps is any indication. He can’t hear much from the outside, which is another indication of just how secure the room is. It also might denote that he’s being kept in a seldom used portion of the compound. Again, which makes sense. Even terrorists probably prefer keeping one type of nefarious enterprise from out and out kidnapping. 

There are no discernible weaknesses in the walls and nothing to indicate that any of them abut toward the outside. The drain in the floor has some possibilities, but when Rick removes the grating he doesn’t get much except a foul smell in his face and a dark hole just big enough for his wrist to get stuck in. The floor surrounding it is thick and solid.

Which leaves the door. Rick knows this is going to be the most vulnerable point, but even that doesn’t offer him much. The bolts can’t be taken out from the inside and it’s been locked with a deadbolt with no inside access. The vent above it could probably be jimmied free, but not without significant commotion, which would undoubtedly draw attention to himself. Even then, getting out of the grate would be an interesting challenge, and Rick doesn’t like the image of himself being shot to death with his ass hanging out into the hallway while he tries to wriggle free.

From the best Rick can discern from the quiet scuffles outside his cell, there is at least one guard on duty, maybe two, but no more than that. They don’t seem to have much to do, so slipping away unnoticed isn’t possible but overthrowing them quickly might work. He could even break the light bulb for pieces of glass, which could be used for an attack if necessary.

If he could get out.

Which, he can’t.

Ultimately, Rick concludes that he’s still screwed. He’s just better informed about how screwed he is now.

Sighing, he sinks back to the floor and rests his head against the wall. He wishes Billy were here.

But more than that, he wishes they were both safe and driving to the airport, asset and intel in tow.

Mostly, Rick just wishes he were anywhere but here.

-o-

It actually seems cliché. The idea of an agent being tortured. Being kept and held, hurt and manipulated. It’s the stuff of movies and best selling novels. Jason Bourne and Mission Impossible.

It happens, of course, but not so often as sensationalistic stories would have people believe. And yet, Billy still understands why authors and screenwriters rely on such tropes. It makes for good entertainment, to see the hero pitted against such heartless forces, to see them tested, to see what their resolve is made of in the end.

The good ones never break. They hold strong, even until the end, be it death or miraculous rescue. The endings of such stories are always climactic and meaningful and the hero is rightfully honored for the sacrifice that common man simply cannot comprehend.

Torture. 

It’s nothing like that.

Torture is dirty and ragged. It’s pitiful and cruel. There’s nothing heroic in seeing a man’s body broken, seeing his will trampled beneath callous boots. The poeticism of a lie against interrogation is marred by sharp line breaks and the crunching of bone.

Torture is as much the long and agonizing silences, where the body aches and fear grapples at the awareness, as it is the strikes and slices that make the entire ordeal as colorful as it is.

Billy has been here before. Not in this room and not in this compound. He doesn’t know these men or what their ultimate ends may be. But tied to the chair, the naked light glaring in his eyes, Billy has still been here before.

He swallows hard and doesn’t let his gaze waver. His captor paces in front of him. He’s armed--at least two guns and three blades that Billy can see--and the room is better stocked than the first with equipment Billy can’t quite identify in the shadows. A pair of guards flank the door and the sound of his captor’s footsteps echo in the room.

The man doesn’t ask any questions. Billy understands this, too. A hopeless man will trade his soul far quicker than one with something left to fight for. Billy’s meant to feel hopeless. He’s meant to believe there is no discernible reprieve. He’s meant to think that he has no other options so when he’s finally given the option to talk, he’ll start blathering to spare himself the pain.

But Billy’s never been particularly good with orders. Anyone who doubts that can ask the British government.

He forces a smile, cocking his head. “Well, gents,” he says. “Are we going to get this started?”

His captor pauses, his eyes narrowing.

Billy has a tendency to talk in any situation, but his motives are not so superfluous now. If the guards are using silence to trap him, Billy will take away their bargaining chips by talking anyway. 

“Should I tell you who I am again? Or do we have that one down by now?” he asks, smirking. “Would you like to hear where I’m from?”

The only reply is a fast fist hard across his face. It rocks Billy in the chair and he sees stars. He blinks rapidly, spitting blood. 

Shaking his head, he looks back up, feeling blood running down his chin. “So we’re moving straight on to current employment, then?” he says.

This time, the boot sends him reeling and Billy hits the ground with a clatter and the real torture begins.

-o-

Rick does what he can. He goes over the confines of the room again and again. He mentally recites the proper protocol when being taken captive. He goes over the intricate details of his alias, saying his fake name and job history into the dank emptiness of the cell. He’s talking his way through his alias’ extended family when the door opens.

It comes as such a surprise that Rick barely has time to get to his feet before Billy is deposited on the floor roughly and the door is slammed shut. For a moment, Rick laments the lost opportunity of escape, but quickly realizes he has greater concerns.

On the floor, Billy hasn’t twitched. When Rick rolls him to his side, it’s clear that the Scottish operative is unconscious.

And one good look down the length of his body and it’s easy to see why.

Billy had been a mess before; he looks frighteningly garish now. There’s enough blood to cast him as an extra to a horror flick, and it seems to be stained intermittently over his body with no clear wound to account for it all. What _is_ easy to see, however, are the tatters of Billy’s clothing, which now seem to hang off him like he’s a scarecrow getting picked at in the fields.

Carefully, Rick pulls away the tatters to look beneath and, in the naked light, it’s easy to see the crisscrossing cuts and slices, most of which are still weeping blood. Some look deeper than others, and the skin pulls open and shut with every wheezing breath Billy seems to be taking, strained even in unconsciousness.

There’s still nothing fatal; the wound in his arm from the first round still seems to be the worst of the damage. But there’s also a new colorful array of bruising to contend with, settling in to darkening shades across Billy’s chest and stomach. Billy’s face is a mess as well, with his lip busted and swollen and his nose leaking haphazardly. One side is puffy and Rick doubts that Billy would be able to open that eye even if he were conscious.

Which Billy most decidedly is not. Billy hasn’t even twitched through Rick’s cursory exam. His breathing is pained, face tense even in unconsciousness. But, despite this, he shows no signs of waking.

Considering the painful nature of the wounds, Rick sort of thinks that might be a good thing. But given the blood loss and possible head wounds, Rick also knows it could be a sign of something worse.

More than that, Rick isn’t sure he wants to handle this on his own. Because Billy out of commission leaves him in charge. He has to make the decisions. He has to fend for Billy and himself.

There’s a weight with that, unexpected and frightening. For all he’s wanted to find his leadership on this team, he’s not sure he wants to find it like this. He’s not even sure he knows what to do with it now that it’s fallen unceremoniously into his lap.

But the fact that it has been thrust to him, the fact that there’s no one else to do this, is something Rick can’t run from. These fours walls are impenetrable from what he can tell, and Billy looks broken on the floor and Rick has to do what he can.

Even if he can’t do much, he has to do something.

Resolved, Rick moves Billy gently, pulling his lax body back away from the middle of the room and rolling him to his side against the wall in what looks like a reasonably comfortable position. He checks Billy’s breathing – notes it’s steady, if strained – and then checks the bandage on his arm. It’s mostly soaked through. Hesitating for a moment, Rick takes Billy’s shirt and rips a strip out of it. Given how frayed it is, he figures it’s probably more useful this way anyway.

Removing the old bandage, Rick quickly ties on a new one, then tears a few more strips to apply to the worst of the new wounds. When he’s done, Billy doesn’t look much better, but Rick still feels better. Marginally, at least.

Sitting back on his heels, Rick sighs. He looks at Billy’s face again and wishes he were awake. But he’s not and Rick’s still in the cell, waiting for...

Something.

Rescue, more torture, death. It’s a toss up at this point. But he can’t operate under those conditions. He has to labor under the pretense that he will survive, that he can still protect the mission, save himself, and save Billy, too. That means he has to stay vigilant. He has to keep looking for weaknesses, ways out.

His eyes linger on Billy. He has to stay strong – for Billy and for himself.

Looking around the four bleak walls, Rick sighs. Chewing his lip, he listens to the emptiness in the hallway and then looks at Billy again. Plotting is important, but taking care of Billy is his first concern. And even if he can’t treat the wounds, maybe he can ease the pain. Maybe he can just be there.

Scooting back, Rick positions himself along the wall close to Billy’s head. Settling in, he hesitates then puts his hand on Billy’s shoulder. He tells himself it’s to hear the push and pull of Billy’s breathing, to make sure his condition doesn’t worsen. And for now, it seems, there’s no one to question him on it.

Still, that’s a win in Rick’s book and on a day like today, Rick will take any win he can find.

-o-

Minutes stretch by. Rick has an innate sense of time, and he feels the minutes as they creep into hours.

He shifts occasionally to fend off the pins and needles in his backside. Billy stirs from time to time but he doesn’t wake. Rick checks the bandages and finds them wet but not worse, and beyond that, there’s not much for him to do.

It’s another method of torture, he understands. Isolating prisoners can enhance their sense of hopelessness, making them more prone to talking when the questions start coming.

Rick also notes that they’ve been offered no food or water. It’s been long enough now that Rick’s stomach is rumbling and his bladder feels full. But their captors don’t seem interested in being humane. Rick supposes that’s to be expected, given that they’re terrorists who kidnap and torture people.

It’s another tactic, Rick recognizes. Sheer pain has some impact, but creating a total dependency on the captor is what really breaks the will. 

This makes Rick nervous even as it gives him the resolve he needs to keep doing what he’s doing.

Which is, exactly, nothing.

But, nothing without despair. He has to stay strong, he has to stay focused. He can’t let the psychological games get to him. 

Though, really, he’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to be reacting under such circumstances. Should he be more proactive? Should he be demanding to be spoken to? Should he already be developing an exit strategy?

Rick doesn’t know. He knows a lot of things, but he doesn’t know this, and his own lack of knowledge in this regard is as shocking as it is disconcerting. The Farm covers a lot of things, including torture and psychological condition, but somehow none of it seems to apply. Not when he’s actually locked in a cell without food or water and a hurt teammate while awaiting probable torture and death and possible rescue.

Maybe not in that order.

When Billy stirs again, Rick is so relieved for the distraction that this time, he moves to his knees and squeezes Billy’s shoulder gently, mindful of the multitude of injuries.

Billy’s face creases with pain and he shifts slightly.

It might be merciful to let him slip back into unconsciousness, but Rick tells himself that he needs Billy awake now. For Billy’s own good just as much as Rick’s.

“Hey,” Rick says, trying not to sound desperate. “Hey, Billy.”

It seems to take effort as Billy’s eyes flutter and Rick can see the slow return to consciousness dawning on his features. He inhales sharply for a moment and holds it, his face tense while he breathes out through it before his eyes stay open and settle on Rick. “Hey,” he says, somehow managing a smile for good measure.

Rick knows it’s a facade, but he’s so damned relieved to see it that he grins back giddily. “Welcome back,” he says.

Billy swallows with difficulty, taking another halting breath before he continues. “Are you referring to this fine prison cell we’re being accommodated in or my harried return to the land of the living?”

The words look like they hurt, but Rick still takes it as a good sign. If Billy has the energy to use superfluous words, then he knows not all is lost. Rick takes a steadying breath of his own and shrugs. “Both,” he offers.

Billy nods slightly. “Well, in both cases,” he says, his voice gaining some strength. “I’m quite relieved to be back.”

With that, Billy seems ready to sit up, pushing up off the ground. His arms shake precariously, though, and Rick is torn between holding him down and helping him up. But Billy manages to get somewhat upright and Rick has no choice but to scramble to assist him, carefully lifting the taller operative into a sitting position and easing him back against the wall.

The process leaves Billy paler than before, and he sucks in hard breaths through his nose as he keeps his eyes closed for a long moment. When he opens them again, his face is still taut and there’s a hint of tears in his eyes.

Still, Billy smiles. “That’s better,” he says. “World looks funny on its side.”

Rick offers a half smile in return. As reassuring as the small talk is, he knows that it’s masking the real issues. Hesitating, he hedges, but gives in to the inevitable. “What did they want?”

Billy shrugs half-heartedly. “They aren’t big into questions,” he says. “But from what I gather, they’re not keeping us around to ask us if we have any novel redecorating ideas.”

Rick tries not to let the answer discourage him. “So they didn’t say anything?”

“Not in so many words,” Billy says. “But their reactions can be quite telling.”

Rick frowns. “Reactions?”

Billy’s smile is knowing. “Just because they don’t ask questions doesn’t mean you can’t give them answers.”

“But what did you tell them?”

“Lovely stories, mostly,” he says vaguely. “Though, given their obvious frustrations, nothing they wanted to hear.”

“They’re getting serious,” Rick says, almost as a warning. 

Billy barks a laugh. “Lad, I think they were serious when they pistol whipped me in the parking lot.”

“I just mean—”

Billy nods, his expression faltering just for a second. “I know, I know,” he says. “And it is perhaps looking a bit dim.”

Rick raises his eyebrows. “This is torture.”

Billy scoffs. “This is nothing,” he says.

Rick’s eyes widen.

Billy concedes with a shrug. “It’s nothing but a prelude, anyway,” he says. He sighs, seeming to settle deeper against the wall. “The trick is to stay strong. They want fear, so the best thing we can do is to show no fear.”

Rick knows there’s truth to that. In theory, he agrees.

But in reality – being here – seeing Billy – it’s that much harder.

Billy smiles at him, gentler this time, less forced. He reaches a hand out, squeezing Rick’s wrist. “It’s not a question of fear,” he says. “It’s a question of what you show them.”

Rick swallows, blinking rapidly. He remembers the conversation with Billy before his first kidnapping. “Are you scared now?”

Billy’s smile endures. “Maybe,” he says. “Though, truth is, I hurt too much to care overly.”

Rick tries to laugh, but he doesn’t feel it. 

Billy’s expression softens again. “It’s not so bad as you think it is,” he says with reassurance.

“How do you figure that?” Rick asks, trying to make it sound like a joke.

“We’re both here, we’re both more or less in one piece,” he says. “And as long as we have the sense to ask the questions that matter, then we are no closer to risking anything than we are back home. You’re strongest when you know your weaknesses, and given your pallor, I might venture you’re quite aware of your weaknesses right now.”

It’s a truth Rick wants to believe in. He looks at the other operative, looks at the steadiness of his eyes, the blood staining his clothes. “And you?”

“What, I haven’t bled enough to prove my vulnerability?” he quips.

Rick can’t deny that. He smiles against the tightness in his throat. “And what do we do in the meantime?” he asks.

“Patience,” Billy says, taking a deep breath and letting it out carefully. “Patience is the key to perseverance. And given our current situation, we need to hold true to both.”

That’s something Rick can agree with. He nods heartily. “Help will come,” he says. “I know it will.”

This time when Billy smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes. But his voice is strong when he replies, “Of course it will.”


	2. Chapter 2

Time passes faster with Billy awake. Sometimes, when Rick fixates on a point on the ceiling, he can almost forget where they are, almost forget just how bad things are. If he doesn’t look, he can’t see Billy’s broken and bloodied body and simply listen to the sound of his voice as he regales Rick with stories from his colorful career.

“Needless to say,” Billy continues, “Higgins was not overly thrilled with the outcome.”

Rick laughs. “What did he do?”

“What could he do?” Billy asks rhetorically. “He gave me a commendation and vowed never to send me to the Czech Republic again.”

Amused, Rick shakes his head. “I can’t believe that.”

“What?” Billy asks, his voice tinged with jesting hurt. “You doubt me?”

“You’re the one who told me that you say a lot of things you don’t mean,” Rick says, and he looks at Billy again. The older operative is still slumped against the wall, taking breaths with effort even as he manages a grin. The blood doesn’t look worse, but the bruises are darkening, cuts turning inflamed around the edges. The levity falters and Rick swallows, working to keep his smile in place. “So I’ve taken to doubting everything you say.”

“Ah, well,” Billy says as nonchalantly as he can. “When we get back, you’ll just have to look it up. It’s all there in the CIA records.”

“Which are probably classified,” Rick points out.

Billy’s grin widens. “And that is truly convenient.”

Rick rolls his eyes, sighing as he looks back at the ceiling. There is a stretch of silence and he shakes his head. He’s thinking of something to say, some way he can pull his weight. The conversation has been good – it’s keeping him grounded – and he’s only too aware of the effort Billy is expending to keep it up for him.

And yet, it’s still a comfort. More, Rick needs it. Rick really, really needs it, and he doesn’t know how to return the favor.

He looks at Billy again and this time the Scot’s eyes are closed. His chest is heaving a bit now and while he’s clearly conscious, Rick sees the pain Billy is trying to hide for him. Billy is drained and for all Billy’s given to Rick, he can’t find anything to give back.

As he’s thinking of something, he barely has time to react to the sound of footsteps outside.

Instinctively, he straightens, glancing at Billy, who is attempting to do the same. Rick is on his feet by the time the door opens and Billy is sitting up on his own, away from the wall.

The guard isn’t one Rick recognizes, but his plain attire and heavy weaponry is the same as the rest. One of the interrogators follows a step behind him, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. His eyes pass over Rick with seeming disinterest before settling on Billy.

He says something in an African dialect and nods in Billy’s direction. Rick doesn’t need to be a linguist to make out what’s being said.

Shaking his head, Rick takes a step forward. Part of it is instinct, part of it is bravado. Some of it may be stupidity. “No,” he says, voice tinged with panic. “He’s had enough.”

At that, the interrogator smirks and nods his head again. The guard steps forward and Rick moves to intercept him. The backlash is instantaneous – so fast, Rick doesn’t see the punch that levels him.

“That’s enough, that’s enough,” he hears Billy saying over the ringing in his ears. The world is still dark but he can hear the scuffling of feet. “I’ll go with you,” Billy continues.

There’s more scuffling and Rick blinks rapidly, trying to regain his sense. By the time his vision has returned, he looks up in time to see the guard manhandling Billy out the door. The Scottish operative is walking, even as he’s being jerked roughly by the arm when he disappears into the hallway.

The protests rise in Rick’s throat, but the interrogator just smirks again and heads out before Rick even has a chance to speak.

When the door shuts and Billy’s gone, Rick lays his head back on the hard cement and closes his eyes. It doesn’t make sense. Why aren’t they working him over, too? What’s with the delay? What does Billy have that they think they can’t get from Rick? Rick doesn’t want to be tortured, but he doesn’t want to be stuck idle in a cell while Billy suffers.

Still, it is what it is. There are no rules to torture. Rick can’t make it fit into simple and defined boxes. Like Billy said, most of the battle is psychological. For the one receiving the blows and the one who has to watch it.

Rick takes a few deep breaths and reminds himself that he can do this. He has to do this. For Billy.

He opens his eyes wearily. For Billy.

-o-

Billy is thrust into a chair and strapped down. While his mind is still reeling from the sudden shifts in his equilibrium, he manages a smile up in the direction of his interrogator.

He is watching Billy, but there is bemusement in his eyes now. There are two guards by the door and Billy can’t see well enough to know if they are the same or different. It doesn’t matter, he supposes, but Billy’s keen on such details, especially when they distract him from the inevitability of what’s to follow.  
Because Billy will smile. He’ll joke and he’ll annoy but that doesn’t mean he is indifferent to what’s coming. No, it rather scares him. He doesn’t relish pain. He doesn’t like feeling his skin crawl and trying to keep the screams buried so deep within him that he almost gags. 

He doesn’t want to endure it. And for love of country, it’s possible he wouldn’t. But it’s not just a country. It’s not just a mission. It’s the people who will be sacrificed if he gives in. 

Rick’s too young. Rick has too much left, in the Agency and outside of it.

He holds that thought close as he tilts his head and says, “Fancy meeting you here.”

The man seems to smirk. He’s still at a distance and seems to be contemplating his options.

Which include a variety of blades and other more creative implements. Billy sees them for the first time laid out on the table in front of him, ranging from surgical scalpels to a bottle of bleach. 

“Oh,” he comments wryly. “You brought toys this time. I do hope you intend to share?”

The man steps forward, eyeing the table with a certain longing. He picks up a pair of pliers.

“Some electrical work to do?” Billy guesses. “Your lighting in here does leave something to be desired.”

The man huffs a small laugh and moves toward Billy’s hand.

It takes all Billy has not to stiffen. Instead he keeps prattling. “Though I think a few simple fixtures might do the trick.”

The man picks up his fingers and Billy can’t pull away as his pointer finger is extended. 

“Something in brushed nickel perhaps? A rustic look?”

The pliers are set and pressed. 

“Or are you more of a stainless steel bloke?”

The yank is not unexpected, but it hurts all the same. The agony swells in his hand as blood wells in the spot where his fingernail used to be, throbbing up his arm and throughout his entire body.

Billy eats a scream but can’t stop himself from flinching, tears stinging at his eyes. “Okay, so clearly we can establish that interior decorating is not my profession,” he says, panting heavily. “Care to hazard a guess as to what is?”

The man walks behind Billy, moving to his other hand.

“I reckon you are a good guesser,” Billy says. “You have a knack for creativity with tools, at any rate.”

His other pointer finger is lifted and the pliers are applied. This time Billy doesn’t have time to continue when his other fingernail is torn clean off.

This time Billy holds back his cry with a laugh, breathless and desperate. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, but he doesn’t let his banter stop. “And I can also tell you I’m not in the hospitality business, but your idea of a manicure leaves something to be desired,” he says, striving for cockiness even as the pain threatens to blind him.

The piers are put down, exchanged for a nail.

Billy’s smile wavers but he doesn’t let it fall. “Moving on to carpentry, are we?” he asks, and he’s thinking of a witty follow up when the nail is poked into the fleshy area between his thumb and pointer finger. It makes him gasp, his throat seizing for a moment. “Might I suggest working on your craftsmanship a bit? Clean through on the first thrust is impressive, but I question the overall placement.”

The nail is pulled out – slowly – and Billy can feel the skin and muscle stretch and throb as blood rushes the site and pours out.

Billy doesn’t let himself watch, looks the man square in the face even as the nail moves further up his hand and the man picks up a hammer. “If you’re looking to hang me on the wall, nothing in the hand will ever support the weight,” Billy advises, body tense already.

The hammer moves and Billy hears the metal on metal before it’s driven through his flesh.

This time, he has to grit his teeth – hard. He tastes blood in his mouth from his tongue, which has been caught in the crossfire. 

The tears run, just for a moment, streaking hot and heavy down his face even as he sniffles and gasps and shakes his head. “Higher still,” he says, pushing the words out with every ounce of willpower he has. “You have to make it count.”

The man’s face flickers, just for a moment.

Billy still sees it. Swallowing, he latches on. “Unless of course, your inability to thrive is why you’re stuck in the bowels doing dirty work,” he suggests.

The man walks behind him, moves to the other hand.

Billy doesn’t let up. “I mean, you can be honest with me,” he says. “We’re both in this situation because we’re the expendable pieces. The important people are the ones who never have to get their hands dirty.”

The nail drives in, hard and fast. 

Billy muffles a cry. “I suppose now I’m speaking literally,” he muses, even as he has to spit the words. He cranes his head to look at the man and smiles. “Though I wonder, if this is what you expect from your guests, how much harsher will they treat you for your failure to succeed at such simple tasks? Or is this your punishment already?”

The man’s face turns hard, rage sparking in his eyes. He shakes his head. “You talk a lot,” he says.

Billy shrugs. There are still fresh tears on his face, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. “I’ve been told.”

“You say nothing of importance,” the man continues.

It’s not really easy to maintain the banter, but Billy’s skilled at deception. He has made a fine art out of convincing people of his own nonchalance, even when it takes a hell of a lot for him to cover what he’s really feeling and thinking. It’s his greatest weapon, he’s found. Play the ignorant imbecile and people tend to overlook what you’re really doing.

Sometimes it feels self deprecating. But then again, it works.

“Well, to be fair, you haven’t told me what you want to know?” Billy presses.

“You know what I want to know,” the man hisses.

Billy shakes his head innocently, though he suspects his doe eyed expression is less a facade than usual given his current state. “I’ve tried—”

“You’ve babbled!”

“Just trying to be sociable,” Billy says, trying not to sound as tired as he feels.

The man moves too quick for Billy to track. The bottle of bleach is in his hand and the corrosive liquid splashes over Billy’s hand, hitting the freshly damaged fingers and the cuts up and down his arm.

The pain is immediate and ferocious. Billy’s vision dims and his body tenses as he tries to jerk away on instinct. But there’s nowhere to go, nothing to do, and his body trembles in shock.

“Who are you?” the man demands, voice like venom now. “Who do you work for?”

And despite the pain, Billy has to smile. Because he’s the one being tortured but it’s his interrogator who is breaking. 

Billy laughs, shaking his head through the agony. “So you do have questions,” he muses. “We’re finally getting somewhere.”

The bleach splashes again and Billy’s consciousness wavers even as he relishes this victory.

-o-

In the time he’s been alone, Rick’s managed to do a lot of thinking.

He thinks about what Michael and Casey are doing. He thinks about the planned extraction and when they would know for sure that something had gone wrong. He thinks about their contact and if he’s on a plane, safely headed toward the States. He calculates the probability of Higgins approving a more substantial rescue operation given the precarious political situation in the area.

It’s hard to say on that last one, though Rick likes to think that it’s still a fairly strong probability. And even if it’s not, Michael and Casey have proven themselves to be loyal until the end.

Of course, there’s no way to figure just how much Michael and Casey will have to overcome to get access to the base to pose any kind of rescue.

Or, if it is, Rick doesn’t want to figure it out because the reality is that it’s still a long shot.

The bottom line, getting out of here alive is a long shot.

Which is when Rick decides to stop thinking about that kind of thing. Instead he thinks about training at the Farm. He thinks about his first day on the job. He thinks about how much he hated his team, how lost he felt.

He tries to remember the first time he felt like he belonged here.

He’s not sure if it’s when they didn’t leave him in Russia. Or if it’s when they rescued Simms. Or all of it.

Rick is still contemplating those things when the door opens.

This time, he doesn’t bother getting to his feet--they haven’t been here a full day, but Rick’s still coming to recognize the routine. Even if Rick had enough courage to make a go at the guards for escape, Billy’s still in the crossfire, and that’s a risk Rick can’t take.

Instead, Rick watches. Watches the guard hauling Billy, the gun slung on his back. Accessible but not on the ready. Watches the guard still standing in the doorway, gun in the same position.

It’s something to consider, at least. Rick might have a chance to take them both out before they could get a shot off. Of course, there’d be no way of knowing what waited for him down the hall, but it is still something to consider.

Then again, Rick’s not sure what he can consider when Billy is dropped to the floor again, hitting like a sack of potatoes by Rick’s feet. Even if it’s only happened once, it seems like an all too familiar drill.

This time, however, Billy _oofs,_ and Rick realizes that he’s still conscious. As much as he knows he shouldn’t, he averts his eyes from the guards and gets to his knees, focusing on Billy.

“You okay?” he asks, even as he knows it’s a stupid question.

Billy groans in response, trying to heft himself upward and mostly failing. He sprawls on his stomach a bit before he manages to roll on his side, head tilted up toward Rick.

He looks worse than before. New bruises on his face and his clothing in tatters. The wounds look raw, skin puckered and red up and down his arms. One of Billy’s hands grasps at the cement as he tries to hold himself a little upright, and Rick can see the new damage.

For a second, Rick’s stomach churns. It’s like a cliche, he thinks. A bad spy movie. This stuff doesn’t happen. This stuff can’t happen.

But it is. Rick blinks and wills himself to believe it even as every part of him wants to reject it.

And yet, Billy smiles. “Never better,” he says, and his teeth are red, fresh blood welling from a cut in his lip.

Rick stares. He’s not sure what to do. He’s not sure what to say. Thinking and plotting and planning doesn’t help him cope with the reality.

Billy just seems to chuckle, exhaling shakily as he flops over onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “It’s not so bad,” he says, a little dreamily, his voice strained. 

At that, Rick laughs outright.

Billy rolls his head to look at him.

“You’re joking, right?” Rick asks.

Billy looks vaguely wounded. “Why would I joke about torture?”

That’s actually sort of a valid point, but Billy looks half dead that Rick just has to laugh again. He shakes his head, sitting back against the wall. “I don’t know,” he admits. He looks at the ceiling and shakes his head again. “I don’t know.”

-o-

It takes some work to get Billy into a comfortable position, but the Scottish operative seems to want to sit up. Rick can only think it hurts, given the state of his, well...everything. But that’s also the reason Rick can’t bring himself to disagree.

Outside, Rick still hears the occasionally scuffle of a guard, but there’s not much else beyond that. He’s already taken to relieving himself in the drain in the middle of the room, and his stomach is growling in earnest now, his throat tight with dry discomfort.

If Billy notices these things, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he breathes carefully next to Rick and sometimes makes small talk.

“So what do they want?” Rick finally asks, when he can’t take it anymore.

“They’re still a little vague on the details,” Billy admits, and his voice still lilts the way it should, but the words are starting to slur ever so slightly. Hours have passed since Billy was dropped back off, and exhaustion is taking hold of both of them.

And it’s almost funny because sitting there, Rick is getting bored. His backside is numb at intervals and he’s so tired of staring at four cement walls that he doesn’t know what to do. 

That’s basically it. He doesn’t know what to do. 

The sudden intensity of his own helplessness hits him hard and he chokes on his breath for a moment. He shakes his head. “What are we going to do?”

Billy looks at him plainly.

Rick shrugs. “I mean, we’re locked in a cell. They’re torturing you and we still don’t know what they want. What are we going to do?” He sounds desperate, even to his own ears.

“They want the things we can’t give them,” Billy says.

Rick scoffs. “So that still doesn’t tell us what we should do.”

“Of course it does,” Billy says, and his voice is surprisingly strong. He pushes himself up slightly, leaned off the wall and turned toward Rick. His blue eyes are intent, and Rick can’t look away. 

“It does?” Rick asks.

“It means we fight,” he says.

Rick feels his protests rise. “We’re locked in a cell, you’re—”

Billy shakes his head, adamant. “There are many ways to fight,” he says, almost insists. “Show them nothing of weakness or fear. Stay true.”

It sounds good – it does, it sounds right — but Rick doesn’t know what to think of that. Because he’s tired and he’s thirsty and he’s locked in a cell and Billy’s getting weaker and Rick doesn’t know what to do. 

The frustration mounts in him, boiling through his helplessness. “But you’re the one they’re hurting,” he says.

“Aye, physically,” Billy agrees. “But don’t think this isn’t torture for you as well.”

But this isn’t the torture Rick expects. He has himself prepared for knives and pliers; helplessness and futility are hard pills to swallow. “What if I can’t?” he asks, because he’s scared of the answer.

Billy doesn’t hesitate. “You can.”

Rick’s almost afraid to ask. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve looked inside you and seen it,” he says. “From the first day I met you, I knew it.”

“But they’ll kill you,” Rick says.

“And you’ll fight harder,” Billy contends. “You’ll fight harder because, ultimately, it’s all you have. They can take your identity, they can take your body, they can definitely take your life. Sometimes they even take your soul, but they can’t take your will unless you surrender it to them freely. It’s the one thing you can never lose. You have to leave it behind.”

It’s a speech that Billy seems to embody, he seems to _be_ the words. When it’s done, his stare is still unyielding.

And Rick considers it. He tries to understand. He tries to know what it means to fight when he can’t even get a single punch off. He wonders why this isn’t the sort of thing he’s learned, why there was never any training for this. He wonders if it’ll even make a difference, if he dies here or lives.

But Billy’s eyes won’t leave him alone and the words are heavy in Rick’s empty stomach.

He feels like he’s losing everything: his self control, his sense of reality, his hope. But Billy’s words find a place inside of him and make sense, even when Rick thinks they shouldn’t.

And he wants to fight this. He wants to tell Billy he’s wrong, that they need something more. He wants to think there’s still something he can do, something he can change. He wants to plan their escape, think of ways to get word to Michael and Casey.

He wants more, but he’s not going to get it.

Sighing, Rick pulls himself together and finally nods. “Okay,” he says.

Billy nods back, smiling. When the moment passes, he seems to deflate, sinking back against the wall.

Rick scoots closer in concern. “You should probably rest,” he suggests, and he wants to touch Billy, to comfort him, but he doesn’t know how.

Billy nods wearily, his eyes already drifting closed. “Probably a prudent measure,” he agrees, then looks up at Rick. “For both of us.”

Rick nods. “Of course,” he says.

Billy looks at him a second longer, as if not sure if he believes Rick, but his body wins out and his head rolls back as his body slumps slightly. It seems to only take seconds before Billy’s eyes stay shut and his breathing evens just slightly.

Rick watches him for a long moment, and it’s clear to see the toll this is taking.

He has to remind himself of what Billy said. He has to remind himself of what he can lose here and what he can’t. He has to remind himself to stay strong, even when he can’t do anything, even now.

He has to remind himself, has to hear Billy’s words, has to see Billy’s bloodied face, because he’s scared if he doesn’t, he might never find the courage to believe in any of it as the hours go on.

-o-

One day has slipped into two. The guards come, leaving one bottle of water and a meager chunk of bread. They’re gone so fast that Rick doesn’t even have time to fully rouse Billy.

The sound of the door shutting does that job well enough, though. And Rick’s not sure which way to turn – toward the food he so desperately wants or Billy who so clearly needs him.

Blinking, Billy looks at him. “What happened?” he asks, voice parched and words hard to understand.

“They left food,” Rick tells him, scooting across the floor to retrieve it.

Billy tries to sit up a little, wincing. “I don’t suppose it’s a nice steak and a glass of wine, eh?”

Rick splits the bread it two, holding half of it out apologetically.

Billy snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “Maybe just a drink, then,” he says.

Rick can see what Billy’s doing. “No, you’re eating something,” he insists, thrusting the bread at him further. “And you’re drinking half this water.”

Eyeing him, Billy actually looks impressed. “What happened to Rick Martinez, uncertain newbie, scared in the face of impending doom?”

“Someone reminded him what was worth fighting for,” Rick says.

And Billy has to smile, his hand reaching out and taking the bread. “Well, it’s hard to argue with that,” he says, taking a bite.

Rick takes a bite of his own, and it’s hard and chewy. The water is stale and warm. Still, as he passes the bottle to Billy and watches him take a drink, he thinks it’s not such a bad meal after all.

-o-

Life with the ODS has always been different. Since the day Rick walked into their office, he’s known that. At first, their paranoia and extreme ways had been confusing and off-putting. But Rick understands it now. Understands it not as a façade, but as a self defense mechanism. Not as a weakness but as their strength. Michael, Casey, and Billy – they’re paranoid bastards because you have to be in a job like this. 

It’s not heartless; it’s just survival. No one quite understands them because no one lives quite like they do.

Some days that’s easier to take than others. But here, in this cell, sharing this load with Billy, Rick understands it better than ever.

They’re leaned together against the wall, stomachs still growling after a meal too soon ended. They make small talk and avoid the things they’re scared of. They don’t need to say the things that matter; they both know it already.

They’ll lie for each other. They’ll stay strong for each other. In this, Rick finds comfort. Solidarity.

So when the guards come back, it’s harder than before to watch them take Billy. 

This time, Rick fights. On his feet, he charges blindly. It might be stupid, but he trusts that the guards will feel their control strongly enough not to put a bullet in him right away. And really, he doesn’t care. Billy can barely stand on his own and Rick has to think they’ve taken enough from Billy by now.

For his trouble, Rick doesn’t get a bullet but the butt of a pistol flashes in his face and he goes down hard. His ears ring, his vision dims. He’s flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, the bare bulb burning into his retinas.

He’s breathing. He’s conscious. He blinks.

Everything recedes. The door is closing and time slips.

Rick thinks, how can he find so much but still not find what he needs? How can he have a team that he likes, a team that he needs, and not be able to give back the way he wants to? How can he save Billy when he can’t save himself?

The hows melt to whys and it’s minutes or it’s hours when Rick takes a strangled breath and realizes what’s happened.

Pistol whipped, no doubt, given the throbbing in his cheek. He lifts a hand and touches the inflamed flesh and it comes away bloody. It takes effort to sit up, his head aching in protest as he gets vertical.

The door is shut.

Billy is gone.

And Rick closes his eyes and tries to tell himself that if no one sees it, then it doesn’t count as crying.

-o-

It’s longer this time. Billy is barely conscious when he’s thrust back into the chair, and he almost laughs when they tie him down.

“I’m not sure I’ll be going anywhere, gents,” he says, letting his head loll back on his neck.

There’s no response as the bindings are tied tightly around his wrists and feet. 

He laughs again, shaking his head. “You get points for being thorough, though,” he says. “I’ll give you that.”

The guards fall back to their position by the door. The interrogator is there. 

Billy offers him a bloody smile. “Hello again, mate,” he slurs with sufficient cheer. It’s hardly a guise at this point; he’s near giddy with pain and exhaustion.

The interrogator studies him.

“Back to no questions?” Billy asks, frowning a little. “And we’d made so much progress.”

The man steps forward.

Billy shrugs. “I suppose it’s not your fault that you’re a slow learner--”

He’s about to continue but there’s a fist across his jaw, so hard that he feels the skin break as the blood wells.

It takes him a minute to blink away the stars and when he manages to, he spits blood, trying not to notice the tooth that’s been uprooted with it.

Wincing, Billy looks up. “Brass knuckles,” he observes. “That’s a creative upgrade.”

“You know the answers I seek,” the man says, standing over Billy.

Billy cranes his head to maintain eye contact. “And I’ve given you the answers.”

The fist pummels hard into his chest this time, and Billy feels the crunch of bone. It’s all he can do to bite back the scream. Still, when he looks up again, there are tears on his cheeks.

“It is in your benefit to tell me,” the man says.

Billy scrunches his nose, shaking his head. “I have,” he insists. “I’m the one who started this conversation, as I recall.”

“And yet everything since then has been a lie,” the man says, punctuating his point by kicking Billy in the knee and driving his fist into Billy’s gut.

The pain is obscured by the lack of oxygen and Billy fights for air, body straining helplessly against his bonds. “That is not entirely a fair assessment,” he grits out, his voice lacking strength.

This time the brass knuckles grind down hard on Billy’s hand, and he yelps, trying not to squirm under the onslaught of pressure.

The man leans close, still keeping the pressure on. His breath is hot on Billy’s cheek and the words are heavy in his ear. “Then you will die here.”

Billy takes a strangled breath. “Not my first choice,” he admits. As the man backs up, Billy meets his gaze with defiance. “But I can probably think of worse options.”

The man slams down on Billy’s hand again before kneeing him forcefully in the groin. Billy gasps, heaving for air.

“Tell me your affiliations,” the man demands.

Billy’s body is throbbing but he shakes his head. “I’ve tried,” he says, adamant in that.

One of his fingers is pulled back quickly, the snapping of bone happening almost faster than Billy can register. “You’ve lied.”

Billy’s crying in earnest now, but he still shakes his head. “It’s in my nature,” he quips.

He’s tracking too slowly or he might have seen the screw driver before it’s driven into the fleshy part of his thigh. This time, he does yell, just for a moment, breathing heavily just to stay conscious.

“So you admit then that you’re a spy?” the man says, twisting the screwdriver for good measure.

Billy squirms helplessly. “No,” he says, voice no more than a wisp. He takes a gulping breath. “I admit that I deflect real emotions by offering up friendly commentary and avoid disclosing real parts of myself by shifting attention to others.”

The screwdriver twists again.

Billy cries out but pushes on. “It’s all probably a psychological no-no, but I hardly think that this is what a therapist would prescribe to deal with such issues.”

The screwdriver is yanked free. “You promised answers,” the man seethes.

“And I’ve given them to you,” Billy tells him, trying to sound strong even as he feels entirely spent. “Without even being asked.”

The man’s expression is almost bemused.

Almost.

Before he moves forward again, thrusting the screwdriver into the other thigh and holding it fast while Billy screams.

-o-

Rick knows it’s probably a lost cause. He knows it probably won’t do him any good.

He doesn’t care.

This time, he stands at the door, pounding. He kicks and slams, screaming at the top of his lungs. He’s not sure what he’s saying – not sure it matters – but he throws himself at it again and again in total desperation.

When the door finally opens, Rick is too exhausted to put up any fight. He recognizes the man at the door vaguely, who is looking at him in total curiosity. “You are making quite a ruckus,” he observes. “Is there something that you think you need?”

“Take me,” Rick says, chest heaving. “Why don’t you take me?”

Rick’s not sure what he expects, but the smirk on the man’s face catches him entirely by surprise. 

“We seek knowledge,” the man explains. “We do not prick pigs just to see them squeal. We prick the ones that will tell us what we want to know.”

Rick frowns, trying to make sense of it. He shakes his head.

“In all of this, you told us nothing,” the man says. “Those with no knowledge are no good for interrogation. Your friend, on the other hand. He has proven himself to be amply informed.”

Rick still shakes his head because it doesn’t make sense.

“But don’t worry,” the man says. “When we have exhausted him, we will use you to make him keep talking. You are a most convenient backup plan.”

The man laughs and Rick still stares. This time, when the door closes, it’s all he can do to sit there and try to understand.

Billy’s the one who told him not to talk. Billy’s the one who told him to stay strong. So what could Billy be telling them? Why do they think Billy knows something and that he doesn’t?

And suddenly, Rick feels more alone than ever in his cell as the minutes pass interminably by.

-o-

It keeps coming back to the same conclusion. And every time Rick realizes it, it makes him more angry than before.

He’s not sure what Billy told them, but he knows Billy told them enough to focus their efforts on him. He’s not sure how much truth and how much falsehood is involved, but Rick also knows that whatever Billy has said, it’s been to protect him.

Rick thinks he should have seen that coming, that he should have suspected it from the beginning. His team is infuriating like that--leaving him out to dry one minute while covering his ass the next. They have him and they coddle him, and Rick doesn’t know which part is more annoying.

It’s hard to be angry, though, when they bring Billy back.

This time, Rick ignores the guards and instead focuses on Billy, who is clearly being dragged between them. He’s thrown to the ground, the force rolling him to his side where he lays unmoving as the door is sealed shut behind them.

On his knees, Rick moves closer, rolling Billy to his back but he has to stop when he sees the extent of the damage. There are gouges now, rippling across Billy’s legs and a few burns on his arms. The wounds are all irritated, the skin red and frayed at the edges. His shirt is gone now, his pants barely holding together. The damage is extensive, ranging from his calves to his forearms, his neck to his groin.

So when Billy blinks at him, Rick’s more than a little surprised. “Keep gawking and people will talk,” Billy says even though his voice is spent and hoarse.

Rick can’t bring himself to smile. “What did you tell them?”

Billy feigns hurt. “You mean you think I broke?”

Rick just shakes his head. “What did you tell them to make them focus on you,” he demands.

Billy smiles slightly and his eyes unfocus, blinking wearily as they roam. He’s slipping toward unconsciousness, and Rick might think maybe that’s a good thing, but he needs to know.

Desperate, Rick takes Billy’s shoulder, shaking him. “What did you tell them?”

The movement brings Billy back and he shakes his head. “Nothing that compromises anything,” he promises.

Rick swears under his breath and fights to keep his temper in check. “You’re not telling me the truth.”

“But I’m also not telling you lies,” Billy says pointedly before giggling. “The difference matters.”

It’s probably shock, but Rick can’t worry about that. Not yet. “Not to me,” he says, finding it hard to hide his fear. “Why won’t they question me? What did you tell them?”

Maybe it’s the desperation in Rick’s tone, but Billy’s smile falters. He takes a few halting breaths and meets Rick’s gaze with new earnestness. “I only told them what we took,” he says, seriously now. “That I saw nothing more than their client data.”

Rick frowns. It’s not what he expects. “Why would you tell them that?”

“A little information to prove my worth,” he says. “To whet their appetite, as it is.”

Forehead wrinkled, Rick pushes the issue. “And what about me?”

“You’re the new guy,” he replies. He swallows with difficulty. “Hired locally as a linguist. You kept watch.”

Rick realizes the story Billy’s spun. He’s provided enough intel to let them know that he’s in on the mission and gain their interest. Rick’s own silence had played into it nicely, suggesting that Billy’s story is probably true, that Rick’s the lesser man on the mission, not necessarily the weak link but the uninformed one.

It’s remarkably flawless, actually. Revealing intel they already know solidifies Billy’s position as one of interest while also impeccably maintaining cover and keep Rick out of harm’s way.

This is why he’s backup. This is why Rick hasn’t been touched. They want to break Billy first, kill him for the information if they want. If that doesn’t work, they have Rick to leverage Billy or, better still, to ransom back to his family when it’s said and done.

Rick’s as impressed as he is pissed off. “So all that talk,” Rick says, throat tight. “All that talk about holding on, staying true, not losing yourself – it was nothing, then?”

This time, Billy looks truly hurt. “It was everything,” he says. “Everything I’m holding on to. Everything I need you to hold to. I won’t last forever, mate. I need you to find these things when I’m lost, yeah?”

“It’s not like that,” Rick says, feeling tears stinging his eyes.

Billy’s smile is nothing more than a phantom on his pained features. “It’s exactly like that,” he argues.

Rick doesn’t have the heart to disagree.

Rick doesn’t have the heart to ream him out, to yell at him like he wants to. Because Billy is lying on the floor, broken and bloodied, and no matter how stupid, he’s doing it for Rick. He’s doing it for his team.

Rick’s anger breaks, and he breathes out. “It’s a stupid plan,” he growls out, hoisting Billy up gently.

Billy groans but doesn’t fight as Rick pulls him back, positioning him against Rick’s body as they lean against the wall. “Aye,” Billy agrees, his body sagging as his eyes drift closed. “That it is.”

Rick holds his chin high, keeps himself firm as Billy lapses into unconsciousness and the hours tick by again.

-o-

Rick is dozing when the door opens again. Even if he wanted to put up some kind of fight, Billy’s body is heavy on his and it take effort to slip out from under the taller man and ease him against the wall.

The shifting rouses Billy, who looks at him through half open eyes.

Rick tries to smile. “Food’s here,” he says.

There’s not much recognition in Billy’s eyes, but he still nods somehow. Rick’s not certain if that’s reassuring or disconcerting, so he decides to ignore it altogether and goes about gathering their meal.

It’s the same as before. A single bottle of water and a hunk of bread. It looks a little bigger than last time, which is something, but as Rick carefully pulls it in two, it still seems woefully inadequate for his aching stomach.

Still, while his concerns are valid, Billy doesn’t have the energy for them. Even if he did, Rick wants to carry this weight since he’s not allowed to carry any of the rest of it.

Coming back toward Billy, Rick positions himself on the floor and smiles. He holds out half the bread – it’s the bigger half and it’s a testament to how out of it Billy is when he doesn’t comment on that.

As ready as Billy seems to be to eat, however, the meager process of lifting his arm is almost more than he can take. Rick watches the effort, trying not to grimace as Billy lifts one hand haltingly into the air.

It’s almost surreal to watch. Billy always does things with such ease, from making friends to fighting under pressure. He’s unflappable and indestructible, almost more than the rest of them because he never lets the pressure show.

And yet, here he is. Barely awake and struggling to reach out his hand. The shift is so sharp that Rick is almost nauseous at the realization. Billy’s not just bad off; he’s dying. He’s wasting away, barely holding on. If Billy doesn’t have the energy to hold his facades in place, then Rick knows Billy must not have any energy at all.

It seems to take forever, but Billy finally holds the bread. He seems to make an effort to focus on it, a line furrowed between his brows, and it’s almost painful for Rick to watch him lift the meager chunk to his mouth to take a bite.

Rick is still watching when Billy chews, and it’s not until Billy looks back at him that Rick remembers to take a bite of his.

For a moment, this is what they do. Take staggering bites, Billy too weak to comment, Rick too afraid to break the silence.

After some time passes, Billy manages a smile. “Not that bad, really,” he says. “The distinctly mild taste of mold adds just a taste of richness.”

Rick’s smile in return is weak. He can’t do it anymore. “Why?” he asks.

Billy frowns a bit. “Just the taste--”

“No,” Rick says, shaking his head. “Why are you taking the fall?”

Billy’s face turns grave, and the lines are deep and he looks old. He shrugs weakly. “Someone has to die here,” he says. “Two just seems superfluous.”

“But why you?” Rick demands.

“Because you’re young and vital,” he says. “Because you have the heart of a hero and the willpower to be a better spy than all of us combined.”

Rick shakes his head.

Billy smiles. “Trust me,” he says. “Your enthusiasm and sense of right and wrong is something that cannot be replicated. The Agency needs you. The world needs you.”

Rick shakes his head again, more adamantly this time. Because he can’t accept that. He can’t believe it. He can’t see his own life as worth more, his career as somehow more valuable. “No more than it needs you, or any member of the ODS,” he insists. “You don’t have the right--”

It’s Billy’s turn to shake his head. “It’s done,” he says. “The fates are not quite sealed, but they’re certainly stuck in their paths.”

“So that’s it?” Rick asks, incredulous. “I’m just supposed to let you die?”

“No,” Billy says. “It looks like it’s your turn to play hero.”

Rick’s face twists up in confusion. “What?”

“The compound is impenetrable but larger than they can staff,” he says, leaning forward, eyes intent on Rick. “We have two guards rotating outside. When they take me for a friendly chat, there’s no one except the single guard outside to contend with. Get a gun and it’s a straight shot to the first exit. A straight shot to freedom.”

Rick almost can’t believe it. It almost doesn’t even make sense. “What?” he asks finally, for the lack of something more intelligent to say.

Billy’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Getting dragged off for torture sessions does have its advantages,” he says with a small wink.

“But I’d have to escape when they take you,” Rick says, his voice barely a hiss. “I’d have to leave you here.”

“Divide and conquer,” Billy agrees, equally quiet.

“Except only one of us would win,” Rick reminds him.

Billy leans back a little, slumping back against the wall. “Only one of us has to,” he says.

Rick has the urge to yell, but Billy’s pathetic condition keeps him in check.

“I trust you,” Billy says, quite serious. “With my life.”

The implications are clear and it’s a responsibility that Rick can’t shirk, no matter how unfair it is.

“Now,” Billy says, putting the last bit of bread into his mouth. “Are you going to share that water or let me die of dehydration?”

That’s the way it is with Billy: he offers an easy option to obscure the fact that he’s being resigned to a much tougher one.

And Rick wants to protest. He wants to argue. He wants to rant and rave and point out all the flaws, all the iniquities – all of it.

But he can’t.

Because Billy’s sitting there, barely conscious, chest heaving. He looks worn and old and he’s just given Rick all the knowledge he needs to get out and all the blessing Rick could ever want to pose an escape, even at Billy’s peril.

And Billy’s asking Rick to leave him behind, to save him by leaving him, but he’s also just asking for a drink. Rick can’t refuse one without refusing the other.

Sighing, Rick unscrews the cap and hands it over to Billy. The Scottish operative’s hands shake as he takes it, and it looks like he may spill it all over himself, but he manages to take a sip, wetting his parched and bloody lips.

Billy offers the bottle back, and Rick is reluctant to take it. When he does, it still feels wrong, even when he knows it’s right.

That’s how all of it feels. Rick wants to resent his team for putting him in situations like this, for hazing him and protecting him all at once. He wants to tell Billy that partnership is about give and take, and Rick’s being forced to take, take, take until he doesn’t know what to do with it all. 

But Billy is broken. Billy is broken for _him._ And Rick recognizes the burden he has to carry, the one that Billy is implicitly trusting him to stand strong under. Because Billy’s been right about this much: there is more than one kind of torture and there’s more than one way to break. If Billy can hold out under knives and cigarette burns, then Rick will endure this.

He’ll endure this because he’s not sure he has any other choice.

-o-

When the meal is over, Rick isn’t sure what else to say. They make jokes about their accommodations and muse about what Casey and Michael are doing. It’s gallows humor at its best, and every time Rick laughs, it hurts somewhere deep inside of him.

After a time, Billy drifts, slipping from consciousness without so much as a word. Rick watches him and thinks about joining him. He’s tired, after all – exhausted deep in his bones, and he feels the weariness pulling at his soul.

And it’s not like there’s something better to do. Locked in a cell, Rick’s options are limited.

But he can’t sleep. Billy’s words are still echoing in his head.

To think, in everything, Billy’s been taking the torture and plotting Rick’s escape all at once. As if it’s that easy. As if Rick has the capacity to pull it off. As if Rick has the heart to walk away when he knows that Billy is probably going to die in his wake.

As if.

He has to hold out, but he doesn’t know for how long. He has to trust Michael and Casey, but he doesn’t know if they can make it in time. He has to protect Billy, but Billy’s too busy protecting him to make that possible.

There are rocks and there are hard places and then there’s this cell, rank with urine and Billy’s blood.

There’s one way out.

Rick keeps his eyes on Billy, eyes on his bloodied face, slack in unconsciousness. 

There’s one way out.

Leaving might be Billy’s death sentence, but Rick’s escape is also the only way to make sure that Billy doesn’t die in vain. Billy’s running out of time. Rick’s running out of time. If he sits here and does nothing while Billy dies when he knows there’s another way, he’ll never let it go.

Of course, if he runs and Billy still dies, he’s not sure he’ll be able to let that go either. It’s hard to admit that it’s better for Billy to die alone than for him to die in vain.

That’s why Billy took that first risk. That’s why Risk needs to take this one, even if it’s the last one either of them take.

Especially if it’s the last one.

Resting his head against the wall, Rick doesn’t dare move – barely lets himself breathe – as he sits next to Billy and reminds himself of the things that matter most.


	3. Chapter 3

Rick’s still awake when he first hears the steps.

They’re distant, muted down the cement hall. Still, Rick makes them out clearly. Dress soles on hard ground, clicking methodically. Fast but not rushed.

Tense, Rick glances at Billy. The taller operative is still asleep – or unconscious, Rick’s not sure it matters – slumped on the floor of their cell, breathing harshly through his parted lips.

The footsteps stop outside the door and there’s scuffling. Keys jingle and voices murmur.

Rick holds his breath.

This is the moment, he realizes. Maybe the last chance he gets. Billy’s not going to last much longer – Rick’s window of opportunity is slim. 

The door opens. Rick remains still. Doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch as they come for Billy.

And Rick watches carefully this time. Watches one guard in the door, the interrogator right behind him. The third plucking Billy off the ground, manhandling his deadweight around.

He makes out the curses and grunts as Billy is roused enough to walk.

Rick still doesn’t move. The interrogator looks at him, smirking. “Giving up already?” he asks.

Rick shrugs. “You already told me I’m just back up,” he says.

“Smart man,” the interrogator says. “Knows his own limitations.”

With that, Billy is pulled from the room, stumbling and slipping in the guard’s grasp. The door closes and Rick listens for the footsteps – one guard, one interrogator, and Billy.

Soon, the hallway is quiet. A small shifting of feet from the guard. 

It’s just like Billy said. One guard. An empty hallway.

A smart man may know his limitations; a smarter one knows how to circumvent them.

-o-

Crouched on the floor, Rick counts the seconds. He holds his breath and listens down the hallway. A minute passes, two.

A thousand doubts plague him, but he forces them back. Instead, he listens as the guard coughs.

It’s impossible to say if it’s the right moment. 

It’s impossible to say if this will work.

It’s impossible to say anything.

But it’s also entirely possible that it’ll work. 

He presses his ear to the back of the door, closes his eyes and listens. He imagines the concrete hallway, imagines it just as Billy described it. Imagines it as a cold, straight shot to freedom. One guard to take out, get himself armed, and then start running and don’t look back.

Not for anything. Not even for Billy.

Rick’s scared to die, but he’s not scared to do what he needs to do. Survival is critical; he’s been trained to survive. He has to go.

But he’s scared to leave Billy behind. He’s scared that he’ll leave and won’t make it back. That he’ll come back and be too late.

His breathing strained, he finds Billy’s voice in his head. _You fight because it’s all you have. They can’t take your will unless you surrender it to them freely. It’s the one thing you can’t lose; you have to leave it behind.  
_  
He can find his will and lose everything else. He just has to leave the rest behind to find the strength to do what needs to be done.

It’s what Billy’s sacrifice is for.

It’s what Rick knows he has to do.

Eyes open, he takes a breath and stops thinking. Stops second guessing and hesitating. Instead, he pounds on the door, pitching his voice just loud enough.

“Hey!” he yells. “Hey, I need help!”

There’s movement outside, almost surprised.

Rick pounds again. “I need to talk to you! I swear,” he says, letting himself sound breathless and panicked. It’s not a stretch. “Before it’s too late. I promise, I can tell you everything!”

There’s a moment of frozen hesitation.

“Please,” Rick says, voice breaking on a sob that he’s been holding back for hours. His desperation isn’t hard to mimic, because this is his only chance. He can get out of here, but only if someone opens the door for him first. For his sake, for the mission, for Billy, Rick begs, “Please.”

And the feet outside scuff the ground. Then keys jingle and the dead bolt moves and Rick slinks to the side and waits.

-o-

Billy wouldn’t bother waking up – at least not at first, after all this, he wants to make them work for it – but the sudden pressure on his arms is enough to rouse him against his will.

His head bobs as he fights against unconsciousness and by the time he’s actually lucid enough to see anything, he realizes that he’s not in the chair this time.

In fact, it’s not even the same room. It’s a similar room, but the door is on the other side and there’s no table, no chairs. The oh-so-friendly guard has retreated to the doorway, straightened at some semblance of attention. He still has his gun, but he doesn’t seem overly itchy to use it.

Which, makes sense, since Billy isn’t overly inclined to make any sudden moves anyway. Normally he’d blame the tight bindings to the chair, but this time his legs are dangling free, just touching the ground while his wrists are suspended above him.

It takes effort, but Billy manages to squint upward. For a second he’s blinded by the sharp light of the bare bulb, but he can hear the clink of metal and then he finally sees the chain hanging from the ceiling.

The chain is attached to shackles, which are clamped around Billy’s wrist.

Which entirely explains the uncomfortable pull on his shoulders and the biting of metal into his already battered wrists.

There’s the sound of movement in the room and Billy turns his attention back to the interrogator, who is standing in front of him.

Billy tries to find his legs and forces a smile. “I see I’m moving up in the world,” he quips, for what it’s worth.

The man offers a smile in return. “I thought you might need some more creative means of motivation.”

“I fully endorse creativity,” Billy says with as much confidence as he can muster. His throat feels strained but he ignores the grating. “But I have to say, shackles? Hanging captives like slabs of meat from the ceiling? Does seem a bit cliché to me.”

The man shrugs. “Clichés exist for a reason,” he says. He walks toward Billy and pulls something from his belt. “Their overuse justifies their very presence.”

“Nice to see you still employing logic while you strip people of their personal integrity and basic human rights,” Billy says.

The man inclines his head as he slips behind Billy. Billy can’t see him, but he can feel him. “You just need to answer the question.”

“You just need to ask the right one,” Billy says in easy return, but he can’t keep his body from tensing.

It doesn’t do any good.

The man lashes out, the leather strap raking hard against Billy’s exposed back.

“Who are you really?” the man demands, whipping Billy again. “Tell me.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a freelancer,” Billy grinds out, jaw taut as his body trembles against the intrusion.

“Lies,” the man says, bringing the lash across again to punctuate his point. “Tell me the truth.”

Billy can’t bite back a cry. Tears spring to his eyes and he shakes his head. “It is the truth.”

The whip bites into his flesh again. “You will tell me the truth,” the man says. “Or you won’t speak at all.”

The whip falls hard and fast after that, unrelenting. Billy tries to curl in, but there’s no place to go. The pain is blinding him, and it’s not just that he doesn’t have air to speak, he doesn’t even have the mental capacity to _think_ anymore.

When it stops, Billy is sobbing, body still shaking from the exertion of it all. It takes him a moment to realize there’s a lull and more so, that his torturer is in front of him now, talking to the guard.

Their tones are hushed with alarm and Billy can’t speak the language – barely has the ability to listen to them at all – when the interrogator slams his hand hard on the door before abruptly leaving the room.

The guard keeps his post, eyes wide with new vigor. His hands are on his gun now.

Something has changed. Something significant.

Rick’s escape. 

Nothing else could elicit such ire, such immediate response. Rick’s managed to escape and that’s the hope that Billy’s been holding out for.

Not for his rescue, but that Rick might not have to suffer his fate. Not for his own life, but for the mission, for his friends, for the greater good.

He’d always believed the kid had the heart of a hero and now it’s more clear than ever that he has the guts of one, too. And the cunning and the strength and the fortitude and _everything.  
_  
The very idea of it makes Billy throw his head back and laugh, tears running down his face, his body bleeding and aching, until he can’t make any noise at all.

-o-

It’s easier than Rick expects.

The guard opens the door, leading with his gun. This makes it easier to swat away, which Rick does in two quick kicks. The guard is so surprised by the attack, that he doesn’t even have time to mount a counter-offensive when Rick hits him in the face – once and then twice – and he’s on the ground.

Rick doesn’t wait. He charges, mounting the man and following up with a battery of hits. He beats him senseless, one fist after another, until he finally realizes that there’s no tension in the man’s body.

Easing back, Rick looks at him, sees the mottle nose and broken lip. Blood seeps from cuts around his eyes, trickling from his mouth. 

The entire thing takes less than a minute and the guard never even makes a sound.

It’s surreal as Rick gets off him, and he refuses to notice the aching in his fingers as he retrieves the guard’s gun, pulling the pistol off his belt, just to be safe. Peaking his head through the open door, the hallway is long, cement, and empty, just like Billy said.

It’s too easy, and for a moment Rick hesitates. He thinks about Billy in the interrogation room. Billy passed out on the floor next to him.

But it’s Billy’s voice still talking to him. _It’s the one thing you can’t lose.  
_  
Rick’s not going to lose his will. Not when it’s taken him so long to find it.

Wetting his lips, gun poised, he races down the hall. Getting out is intuitive; he follows the passageways in a logical order, silent and deadly. He knows he’s approaching an exit when there are armed guards in front of him and Rick doesn’t even slow down as he takes them out, one by one by one.

They fall, not even getting a shot off. Rick doesn’t know if they’re dead – can’t bring himself to care. There’s no time.

Instead he runs, charging now at full speed. The gunfire will have attracted attention – he’s sure of that – and while the corridors may have some defensible possibilities, Rick needs to get a good head start in the open ground if he’s going to have any chance of making it back to Michael and Casey.

He has no pretense of stealth now. He runs – fast and faster.

At the door, he kicks at it. Finding it locked, he bends over and swipes the keys from the closest guard, nabbing his walkie-talkie and cell phone while he’s at it. It takes longer than he wants to jostle the door open, and he can hear the sound of footfalls and yelling as he pushes it wide and makes a break into the sun burnt day.

It’s so bright that Rick can barely see. But he doesn’t need to see to run. 

And Rick runs.

Someone fires at him. Rick doesn’t stop as he fires back. He ducks behind cars for cover but keeps moving. As he approaches the security checkpoint where this all started, Rick doesn’t hesitate to take out the guards in clean, neat shots, hurdling over the guardrail in a single leap.

There’s more noise behind him now. Gunfire and yelling and engines starting. They’ll have speed, but Rick has determination. He doesn’t have a destination just yet but he has the motivation to get there. 

Without thinking, Rick veers hard, moving away from the open terrain in front of the compound and toward the refuge of jungle nearby. Civilization is in the other direction, but there’s no cover that way, and more than civilization, Rick needs cover right now.

It’s not a far run, but it feels like miles. His heart pounds and his legs pump. Sounds from the compound fall away, drowned out by the thrumming of his heart in his ears.  
 _  
They can never take your will unless you surrender it to them freely. It’s the one thing you can’t lose; you have to leave it behind.  
_  
So Rick does. He finds it, holds it, and leaves everything else. He pushes himself past the brink, makes his body work well into exhaustion. The pounding sun gives way to the refuge of trees and he doesn’t stop.

Can’t stop.

Every step hurts – aches – and he thinks of Billy back at the compound. Billy, alone and tortured.

Billy.

And Rick doesn’t stop.

Refuses to stop.

He’s not sure how long he runs – he’s not sure it matters. When his legs give out, he stumbles over a fallen tree. He rolls a little, trying to find his bearings. He comes to a stop but the world is still spinning, the canopy above him a mess of green and blue.  
 _  
You fight because it’s all you have._

_You fight.  
_  
And Rick has fought. But he’s so tired and he’s so hot and he’s panting so hard that he can hardly breathe and the sounds of the forest rise around him as his eyes flutter close and everything else slips away.

-o-

Billy’s still hanging when the door opens again. His feet are limp on the ground, knees slack. The weight on his shoulders is reaching a painful peak, but he doesn’t have the energy to move.

As it is, he barely has the energy to look up as the interrogator comes at him. This time, there’s no humor hidden in his face. There’s no smirk, no condescending air.

Just anger.

“Where is your friend?” he demands, face close to Billy, close enough to feel the anger radiating off him.

Billy grins a bloody smile. “You mean he’s not tucked nicely in your accommodating cell?”

The man moves, hand slapping across Billy’s face. It’s by no means the worst hit he’s received in the last few days, but it still rattles Billy.

“Where would he go?” the man says, voice almost deadly now.

It takes effort to even shake his head and Billy can hardly focus on the man’s face with his consciousness so precarious. “Where do you think he’d go?” he asks, words slurring. “Anywhere but here.”

This time, it’s a fist to his bruised stomach, driving the air from his lungs. Billy swings with the impact, eyes squeezed shut tightly as fresh tears seep out.

“Which is where I’d like to be,” he says tightly, trying to regain control over his breathing.

The man in front of him snorts. “It is where you will never be,” he says shortly, his tone perfunctory. He pulls something from his belt and Billy recognizes the nightstick for what it is. “Because unless you tell me where you friend is, you will never leave this room.”

Billy doesn’t have time to reply as the stick connects with his ribs. There’s no time to recover when it bashes into his arms and his legs and his chest and his neck. It drives into his stomach, steals the air from his lungs. A shot to this throat leaves him choking and a hand entwined in his hair jerks his head up, bringing him back to awareness, holding him steady. 

“At least, you will not leave this room alive,” the man amends, breath hot in Billy’s face, and the smirk is back now, a deadly gleam in his eyes.

His head is released and his head drops forward. Before unconsciousness can claim him, the hits start up again, even stronger, faster, more unrelenting. Billy is powerless against it, shackled and hanging like a pathetic piñata that is already broken.

This is what Billy knew would happen. This is what Billy planned all along. Rick will survive. The mission will prevail. There may even be a rescue mission.

Billy just won’t be alive long enough to reap any of those benefits.

This is his fate and he’s resigned himself to it. But as the cloying darkness closes in, Billy can’t deny that fact that his isolation scares him – almost as much as his inevitable and impending death.

-o-

Somewhere, there’s a monkey howling. Given that they’re in a southern part of Africa, where wildlife is exotic and often teeming, he supposes there are lots of monkeys howling somewhere. This one just sounds particularly close, and the last Rick checked, he was stuck inside a cell awaiting interrogation or death. Or both.

Until he escaped.

Rick startles.

He escaped.

Blinking his eyes open, he sits up abruptly, his body protesting at the movement. Though his brief round of torture has left him bruised, it’s the days on minimal food and water that are making his body ache.

And his mad flight out of the compound probably hasn’t helped much.

His ears are ringing and his head is spinning. By the time he gets himself in check, he realizes that some time must have passed. Through the trees, he can see the approach of twilight and his throat itches with thirst.

The monkey in the distance howls again, joined by another. The sound of bugs and birds fill the air intermittently and Rick processes now what he’d been too busy to think about earlier.

His escape had been successful, but left him with no cover. The compound is situated on the edge of the savanna, just next to the outskirts of the forest. The direction Rick ran was the opposite way from civilization but it is also the only cover he could have possibly found. Out on the open road, he would have been a sitting duck. 

Out in the open savanna, he’s not sure his chance would be much better.

Swallowing, he looks around again and considers the various predators probably lurking in the shadows. He’s not exactly safe where he’s at.

There’s still something working in his favor, though. With the fall of night, he’ll be able to leave the forest and take to the road. Wandering out in the open probably still isn’t smart--for possible patrols from the compound and from wild animals – but it’s a chance he’s going to have to take.

After all, what other options does he have? Rick can’t go through the jungle--it won’t get him anywhere. And it’s not like he can go back to the compound and politely ask to use a phone.

No, taking the road is his only choice and traveling by night is the only hope he has left.

The fact that it’s not much hope at all doesn’t seem worth considering at the moment.

Pushing himself to his feet, Rick sways for a moment. It takes effort to stay upright, and as he walks, the edges of his vision are dim. Still, he moves carefully now, feet padding softly on the fauna. It’s a bit of a hike to the edge of the trees, and he can see clearly now how far he ran in his mad dash towards freedom. 

There are signs of the earth being torn up and Rick wonders briefly if his pursuers came close to finding him. There’s a chance they’re still out there.

It’s an unsettling thought, but Rick refuses to dwell on it. In his path back toward the edge of the trees, he’s found himself on the far side, at least a mile or two closer to road. It’s a stroke of luck; behind the compound, he’s less likely to be spotted and now he’s that much closer to freedom.

Rick swallows hard and tries not to think about it all too much. That much closer to freedom, when Billy is still stuck inside. He looks at the compound and thinks about his cell. Thinks about the four walls and the drain. He thinks about Billy.

Billy could already be dead. They might have killed him in anger. Even if Rick makes it to safety, he might have to stage a rescue operation for a corpse.

Assuming they leave anything left of Billy to find.

His jaw tightens and he shakes his head slightly. It can’t be like that. It isn’t. And Rick has to keep fighting in that belief. He has to.

Billy saved him.

It’s Rick’s turn to return the favor.

Jungle or savanna, guards or wild animal, tired or hurting, Rick has to.

-o-

After so much time in the cell, Rick thinks time should move faster on the outside.

It doesn’t.

Twilight lingers, the sun lowering imperceptibly over the horizon in frustrating slowness. Rick needs the cover of dark if he’s going to make a clean break--if he goes too early, he could make all of this for nothing.

And he can’t have that. Rick’s willing to die for his country--for his job, for his friends--but he doesn’t want it to be quite so quick or quite so senseless. Rick’s not a vain person, but there’s been too much sacrificed for him to let it fall apart now.

And still, waiting is torture.

The what-if’s are killer. The things that could go wrong. The things that have gone wrong. Perversely, he can’t stop himself from thinking.

Thinking about what Michael would do. Thinking about his cool headed plans, how he thinks nonstop on his feet. Thinks about how he sees every possibility and somehow plans for all the outcomes Rick deems unlikely. How he finds the missing piece to any mission, almost without trying, and finds success every time.

Then he thinks about Casey. He thinks about Casey’s dogged pragmatism, his plaintive resourcefulness. He can fight anything – and win. He knows all the possible means of failure and has the willpower to circumvent them all by sheer determination alone.

And he has to think about Billy – can’t stop himself from thinking about Billy. Thinking about how he sweet-talked his way into trouble so Rick wouldn’t have to face it. He keeps going over it in his mind, the way Billy put his own life at risk so Rick could escape, the way he did it with a smile even when he was bleeding from the inside out.

Over the sounds of the jungle, he can hear their voices.  
 __  
It was always risky.

_The entire point of the plan is not to get caught._

_One of us has to die here; two seems superfluous.  
_  
Michael won’t blame him. Casey won’t either. And he’s practically got Billy’s blessing in all of this.

But Michael’s probably on the phone with Higgins, trying to secure more intel and support. Casey’s probably scouring the local area for clues and leads, checking up on the ins and outs of the terrorists in town.

And Billy--

Rick doesn’t want to think about Billy. Tied down in a torture chamber. Curled up, alone in the cell. It’s too much.

He still hears them all.  
 __  
That’s one hell of a way to start the week.

_It’s still going to be a tough mission._

_You fight because it’s all you have.  
_  
It’s an endless loop, playing ragged through Rick’s tired mind, wearing down his nerves and weighing on his shoulders.

When it’s finally dark, Rick moves just to stop thinking about it all. Whatever the future of this mission holds, he thinks it can’t be worse than what he’s already been through.

At least, that’s his fleeting hope as he escapes into the night.

-o-

Making it past the compound is easier than he thinks it will be. In the dark, he moves low and fast, and it’s easy to avoid the lighted patches surrounding the area. Rick could take a wider route, but he still doesn’t trust the open savanna in the dark, so he walks the line as finely as he can.

When he gets to the road, it’s not easy to let his hackles relax. It’s still a long, open stretch in front of him and he knows that the majority of traffic is going to be headed to or from the compound. This means that hitching a ride is going to be unlikely if not impossible; it also means that he needs to be careful. There’s a chance they’ve still got patrols out looking for him.

More than a chance, really. These terrorists have a history of killing anyone who crosses them, and given the lack of evidence gathered against them, they’re pretty good at eliminating witnesses. It’s really not all that likely that they’d let a loose end like Rick waft in the wind.

Of course, they also might figure that with no means of transportation and the only way back to civilization on a lonely road through the savanna, he’s probably as good as dead anyway.

In all, it’s not exactly encouraging.

And yet, it doesn’t really matter.

Rick follows the road but keeps himself in the tall grasses to the side. It’s not perfect cover, but it’s still something. He can see the oncoming traffic and he should have time to duck if he needs to.

He keeps a good clip, forcing his rubbery legs to run. After several miles, his heart is throbbing, his lungs tight, but he doesn’t slow down. He knows that he still has a long way to go and that his travel will be more limited during the day. He has to put in his best work now--he has to put enough distance between him and the compound if he’s going to have any chance of succeeding.

And he has to succeed. At this point, failure isn’t an option. He has to make it back to Michael and Casey, just like he has to keep his feet moving, one right after another. He has to get help, he has to get help and go back for Billy. Before it’s too late.

Rick’s not sure just what that means. Or, if he does know, he doesn’t acknowledge it. 

Fortunately, it’s pretty easy to ignore as he runs. His body feels weary but he just keeps running, fast enough that he can’t feel it. His face aches, his throat is parched; his entire body feels sore and strained. But it doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter.

It’s autopilot, and he’s so focused on the difficult task that he almost doesn’t hear the car until the flash of headlights momentarily blinds him.

Panicked, he dives low, ducking into the grasses flat on his belly. There’s the sound of tires screeching and Rick bites back a swear, mind working rapidly. Dark or not, he has to find some cover – some way to hide himself. If they catch him--

There’s no point in wondering. He won’t be alive long enough to worry about it if they catch him.

Such failure is not an option.

With fresh adrenaline, Rick scuttles rapidly across the ground, moving away from the road and into the deeper grasses of the savanna. He peels out at an angle, pushing himself away from the road and out of the obvious line of vision from the car. Behind him, he hears car doors and voices, but he doesn’t slow down long enough to worry about a translation.

A new light sweeps across the field and Rick goes painfully still, holding in his breath with such tenacity that it physically hurts. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself not to move, not to give any indication of where he’s at. The light lingers, pausing and Rick is too scared to even pray.

All this, and it could end here. Everything he’s done, and it could be over just like this. The sacrifices, the risks, the chances--

The light moves on. The voices sound less urgent. When the light disappears entirely, Rick hears car doors again and the rumble of the engine starting up.

As the car drives off, Rick blows out a breath and cries for a moment. The exhaustion is catching up with him – the early stages of dehydration probably are, too.

He’s made it this far, but lying there, alone in the savanna, it hits him just how hopeless his cause is. He’s not sure who he’s kidding. Billy is good with facades; Rick is not. He feels alone and scared and maybe he can’t do this.

Maybe he _can’t._

Suddenly, a noise startles him.

Rick freezes, his crying stilled. He listens.

It’s not a car – but a rustling of the grass. And more: there’s a huff and a snort.

Rick’s heart skips a beat, almost stops all together.

An animal. 

And Rick realizes that he may be out of the woods, but he’s nowhere near safe just yet.

-o-

The fear might be paralyzing, but the adrenaline is a Godsend.

Rick’s exhaustion is forgotten; his weariness nonexistent. He remembers that he isn’t here to die; he’s here to complete his mission. And whether he lives or dies – it’s not important for his own fate. It’s important to the CIA, to his team. To Billy.

It’s like a jolt to the heart and his eyes snap open, staring up into the darkness, his entire body still as a statue.

He hones his senses and focuses his hearing. He puts aside his beating heart, the deep anguish in his body, and _listens.  
_  
There’s still scuffling. More snorts. It’s muted but not stealthy. The grasses move gently and Rick starts to discern the sounds of chewing.

A herbivore. 

It’s a bit of a risk, but he’s sure enough in his assessment to sit up and look. He has to get on his knees to peer over the long grasses, but just a few feet over, he can see the grazing gazelle.

There’s one, and another. After a moment, he distinguishes nearly ten in the darkness. Not quite a herd, but definitely part of one. 

At first, this is a relief. Gazelles are not harmful to humans, except if they stampede. But this small group won’t even be much good at that.

Rick looks behind him, checking the road. He can barely see it in the darkness, but it’s quiet and dark.

This is good, he thinks. All of this is good.

Just Rick, a lonely road, and a small group of gazelles. Considering that last night he was in a cell, trying to nurse Billy back to health, this is something of an improvement.

And yet, something’s not quite right. Something about how quickly the men in the car left, something about the small group of gazelles. Something about the African savanna at night and the eerie stillness that seems to surround him.

Something--

The quiet before the storm. Because a small group of isolated gazelles isn’t much of a threat. Not to a human--

Not to a carnivore.

The thought is just settling over him when Rick feels the hair on the back of his neck raise. Why wouldn’t the men search the ground? Send out a scout? Rick’s a loose end they can’t afford and these gazelle aren’t a threat--

But a lion is.

Rick hears the smallest growl – somewhere to his left – and realizes everything. The men didn’t search because they didn’t want to risk becoming lion fodder. The gazelles are innocuous except that they’ve brought the lion’s hunting grounds right to Rick.

He’s survived torture. He’s escaped terrorists. He’s evaded capture. 

And now he’s going to be attacked by a lion.

It doesn’t seem fair.

Before Rick can dwell on that, there’s another growl and the rustle of grass. The gazelles go still and Rick holds his breath.

Suddenly, the gazelles dart off, scampering wildly and Rick barely has time to register the movement before he sees the flash of fur flying through the night.

He doesn’t know if it’s lunging at him. He doesn’t know if the gazelles see him or care if he’s there.

Rick just knows to run.

-o-

When he signed up for the CIA, he had thought he was ready for anything. International espionage, he figured, envisioning meets in dark alleys, deep covers, and sneaking stealthily through terrorist compounds.

Torture had also been a possibility, even if he’d had no idea at the time just what that would really be like. He’d contemplated the odds of getting shot, stabbed, abducted, and just about anything else.

But somehow, in his varied brainstorming, he’s never considered being mauled by a wild animal.

And yet, there he is. Running for his life with gazelles on the African savanna while a lion charges after him.

Wonders never cease.

It’s not the way he wanted to die, but then, he doesn’t really want to die at all. He thinks he should turn around, to see how close his impending doom is, but he doesn’t dare.

He can’t.

He just runs.

There’s pounding of hooves and a terrible growl. The air is split by a guttural howl and then the action fades.

Rick still runs, and keeps running. The gazelles around him scatter. Another hundred yards and Rick realizes he’s running alone.

Somehow, he comes to a stop, bent over and panting. He has to rest his hands on his knees as he cranes his head back to look in the darkness.

At first, it’s hard to see. His vision is strained from his exhaustion and the darkness is cloying. The tall grass is obscuring his vision for some distance, but he can still see the impressive form looming in the distance.

It is a lion – a female by the looks. She’s larger than Rick might expect, never having seen one outside of a zoo or enclosed space. She’s sitting majestically in the darkness, licking her lips before she bends over and rips at something. When she comes up, there’s a hunk of meat in her mouth and Rick realizes why the chase has stopped.

The lion caught its prey – one of the gazelles.

It’s as terrifying as it is amazing, and Rick might stay and gawk were he not still so perilously close to death on all sides.

A lion, angry terrorists. An endless journey with no provisions and no guarantee of success.

Rick laughs, almost crying as he does. It’ll take a miracle to get back. 

Then again, it’s taken more than a few miracles to get this far.

With that determination, Rick pushes himself upright and heads off into the night.

-o-

Rick loses track of time. One mile looks the same as the last – endless grass, the pale stream of road the only thing keeping him tethered to any kind of direction. He runs until his consciousness fades and jogs until his straining lungs almost give out entirely.

Somewhere, he trips, snags his ankle. The pain is harsh and wrenching, but Rick just keeps moving.

When day breaks, he’s limping and gasping. It’s hard to tell what the most pressing need his body has. His throat feels like it’s closing up; his lungs are overtaxed. He hasn’t had anything to drink and everything hurts.

Not just hurts, _aches._ Deep, bone sucking, incessant. It eclipses his consciousness and he goes down hard into the grass despite his best efforts.

For a moment, he can’t even move. He sucks in breaths through his open mouth, tasting the grass as he strains desperately for air his lungs don’t know how to process. He’d cry but he doesn’t have the energy.

It’s over, he thinks. He’s come so far, but it’s over now. It’s just over.

His legs won’t move, his lungs don’t work, and he’s so dry that his eyes burn and his tongue is swollen.

It doesn’t end with torture or valiant escapes. It doesn’t end with the jungle or the savanna.

It just _ends._

Michael and Casey might find him eventually. Might even save Billy.

Or Rick could just die, rotting in the open sun. And Billy could be tortured to death in a cold and bleak cell. Their bodies might never be recovered.

It’s over.

For a moment, it’s a fate he doesn’t know how to avoid. A reality he doesn’t think he can resist.

But he can still hear Billy. Over the pounding of his heart, the aches in his body, the voice is still so clear.  
 __  
You fight because it’s all you have. They can take your identity. They can take your body. They can definitely take your life. Sometimes they even take your soul, but they can’t take your will unless you surrender it to them freely. It’s the one thing you can’t lose; you have to leave it behind.  
  
Leave it behind.

He’s left his safe life to become a spy. He’s left Billy to try to save them both. 

He can’t leave this.

He can’t leave his will behind.

Not now.

Not ever.

It’s a monumental effort, but Rick barely feels it as he gets back to his feet. The road still stretches long into the horizon but he doesn’t care anymore. Can’t care.

Instead, he pushes his tired feet to move, one after another, as he struggles doggedly toward hope.

-o-

Rick is almost beyond panting when he gets there. His chest aches and he can barely feel his legs. Michael catches him by his arm as he staggers through the doorway, and he blinks up at him, almost too surprised to know what to say.

He’s been running so long, working so hard, with his eye on this moment. Now that it’s here, he’s almost too exhausted to realize it.

Still, he takes a gulping breath, trying to clear the fog in his head. Everything hurts, and his consciousness flickers.

But Michael’s hand is steady, his voice demanding. There’s a note of intensity underlining the words, almost girded by what Rick might call panic. “Martinez, where’s Collins?”

Rick swallows hard and remembers. It’s a simple question, and it has a simple answer, but there’s no easy way to say it nonetheless. 

Breathing ragged, Rick fixes his eyes on Michael so he understands. “I lost him,” he says, as his legs give out, the last of his energy dissipating. Michael’s expression is unwavering and Rick tries to explain what he doesn’t know how to grasp. “I tried, but couldn’t get him back. I lost him.”

The words resonate with painful veracity as the darkness finally claims him and he collapses in Michael’s arms.

-o-

It’s over.

At least, Billy’s starting to hope it’s over.

Previously, the torture sessions had been colorful but purposeful. They’d been contained and controlled.

This one--

This one hasn’t stopped.

The implements do get increasingly creative, Billy will grant his interrogator that. Electrical shock and water boarding. When he passes out, he’s unceremoniously brought back to life with a good hit or water being poured down his throat while his nose is plugged.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed; he isn’t sure he cares. The questions are fast and furious now – driven by anger and frustration. Now that Billy’s elicited the emotions he’s been provoking all along, he doesn’t see the need to keep making it fester.

Moreover, he doesn’t know how.

His voice is gone, broken on a yell when the tendons in his hand are sliced. He sees things in flashes of movement and light, swathed in red. He’s disconnecting himself, slowly but surely, and he can’t feel his dislocated shoulders or his limp legs as they drag across the floor.

Sometimes, silence passes. Billy drifts, not awake but not unconscious, and his facades are gone. He knew this would happen, but it’s still a stark and damning state of mind.

He’s alone.

He’s alone and he’s dying and he’s going to die alone.

Rick will make it to safety--Billy’s believes that--has to believe that. Rick will survive and Michael and Casey will get them all home to safety and the mission will be a success and this is what Billy wants.

This is what Billy planned for the minute things went south.

This is just what Billy knew would happen.

Still, it’s hard. He thinks of the other things in his life that he’s struggled with. Falling in love with Olivia Drummond just to let her walk away. Giving his life to service of his country only to be forced out years later. Making a home with a team and seeing one of his teammates presumably die a horrible and fiery death.

Of finding something hopeful with Rick, something worth fighting for, and knowing he’ll never get to see the spy Rick becomes.

Of becoming a team again – better than before, better than ever – only to be taken from it before he’s ready.

And Billy’s not ready. He may pretend he is, but he’s not. It’s a small ember of despair that’s always lurked inside of him and as the rest of him burns out, it re-ignites itself with vigor. Maybe Billy deserves this for some of his mistakes. Maybe Billy deserves worse.

He should be strong. He should be defiant. He should go out with a bang.

But rough hands slap his face. Fingers twist his chin, prying open his mouth. He’s prodded and poked, lifted and moved. A puppet on a string.

He stops opening his eyes. He stops reacting to the pain.

Except a whimper. A long, sustained whimper as he accepts his fate once and for all.

-o-

Rick can still hear the voices.

It takes him a minute to realize that this time, they’re not just in his head.

He wants to come awake at that realization but he doesn’t quite have the energy. As it is, it takes him almost a full minute to open his eyes. It’s another minute after that before he realizes that he’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Only it’s not the dank cell. It’s not even the jungle or the savanna.

It’s the hotel room.

With effort, Rick swallows, rolling his head toward the side. Things are blurry but he sees two forms bent over the table in the room.

“We don’t have the manpower,” Casey says.

“We don’t need the manpower,” Michael replies.

Casey sighs, looking wearily at Michael. “He might not even be alive.”

It’s realistic, and Rick knows that. But he can accept it. He tries to speak, but his words get stuck and he flails instead.

Still, it’s enough for Michael and Casey to look at him. Michael looks surprised as he comes closer. “Martinez?”

Rick swallows again, working the saliva into his throat.

“You’re badly dehydrated,” Michael explains. “Casey started an IV but it’s going to be a while before you’re back on your feet.”

Michael’s explanation is plaintive, and there’s no blame in it.

Rick shakes his head, his body starting to tingle. “Billy’s alive,” he says, and it comes out as a croak, but Michael and Casey still understand it.

Nonetheless, Michael’s face is grim. “You said you lost him.”

Rick nods as best he can. “They tortured him,” he continues. “My only chance to run was when they took him.”

Michael glances back at Casey, who shrugs. “Makes sense,” he says. “They’d be more preoccupied with the one they’ve got in questioning than the spare in the cell.”

Michael looks back at Rick. “How bad was he?”

It’s noteworthy to Rick that, despite their planning, Michael’s question is about Billy. Not the compound or it defenses. 

And yet, the question is hard to think about. He remembers Billy’s efforts to stay upright, his battered body. “He’s still alive,” Rick says finally. “We have to get him out.”

Michael just nods. “We will,” he replies, and Rick knows that’s always been the plan. He leans forward, patting Rick’s leg. “Just get some rest.”

Rick tries to shake his head, but his strength is waning. “Defenses are weak,” he says.

Michael pauses, frowning. “What?”

It takes all of Rick’s energy to just stay awake. “It’s a skeleton crew,” he says. “Designed to look more impressive than it is. All you have to do is get inside. After that, the rest should be easy.”

Michael stares at him for a moment, clearly in disbelief. Rick would say more, Rick would say something, but unconsciousness is calling him.

He breathes out, his eyes fluttering. “You have to find him,” he says, voice barely audible as he loses his battle with consciousness once again.

-o-

This time, he dreams. The dreams are winding and complicated, snippets of his life thrown together. His first girlfriend and his second grade teacher; pitching a no hitter and graduating valedictorian of his class. The memories fade, one to the next, and Rick wanders through them, looking.

He’s looking for something, but he’s not sure what. He watches as he kisses Teresa McGrath in the front seat of his car, his hands toying with the bottom of her shirt but too shy to go further. He looks as Mrs. Upmeyer stands at the board and writes basic arithmetic in clean chalk lines that Rick copies down into his notebook. He watches himself holding the game ball above his head. He sees his mother beaming in the front row as he walks across the stage, diploma now in hand.

It’s not there, though. None of it is there. He sees himself, but it’s not him. At least, not all of him. He’s trying to find the missing piece, trying to put it all together, but the more he looks, the more lost he feels.

When he wakes up, Michael and Casey are stuffing weaponry into duffle bags. Michael looks at him. “Some timing,” he comments.

Rick frowns and sits up. It’s easier this time. “Where are you going?”

“We’re going to find Billy,” Casey replies simply, tucking an extra gun into his pants.

Rick swings his legs off the bed. “You have a plan?”

Michael doesn’t respond for a moment, just long enough to let Rick know that their plan is conceived but risky as hell. Still, he nods. “We have a plan.”

For a moment, Rick considers asking what it is. Then he realizes it doesn’t matter. He blinks a few times and nods. “What can I do?”

Casey lifts his eyebrows and looks at Michael. Michael seems a bit surprised, but not a lot. “You can stay here and get yourself back to one hundred percent,” he says. “We’ll be back with Billy in a few hours and then we’ll be cutting out of here as quick as we can before we start an international incident.”

It’s practical. Logical. Given the throbbing in Rick’s head and the pervasive weariness in his bones, it’s probably the best choice.

Rick gets to his feet anyway, shakes his head. “I’m going.”

Michael and Casey exchange another look. “You’re not exactly in peak capacity,” Casey reminds him.

Rick will not be deterred. “Billy put himself in danger to protect me,” he says. “He put his life in danger so I could have a chance to save us both. I’m not leaving him in there. I’m going back.”

It’s not much of a speech – if Rick were at peak capacity, he could probably do better – but it’s the truth. Plain and simple.

More than that, it’s a truth he knows Michael and Casey will understand. Rick may be the new member of the team, but he’s been there long enough to know how they function. He knows that they’ll throw themselves in harms way for the sake of one another and that they’ll do anything they need to in order to bring all of them back--alive.

They’ve done it for Rick.

Rick needs to do it for them.

Michael finally nods. “Okay,” he says. “Gear up and be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

Despite his exhaustion, Rick’s ready in five, and they head out together in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

PART FOUR

The ride over is long.

Michael is stone-faced in the driver’s seat. Casey’s taut next to him. In the back, Rick forgoes his seat belt and sits closer, wetting his lips as his nerves mount. “So maybe you should tell me the plan,” Rick suggests.

Casey looks to Michael, who shrugs. Casey sighs and looks back at Rick. “It’s really very simple,” he says.

“Like what?” Rick asks.

“We’ll park a few miles out, just out of their security range,” Michael explains.

“And we’ll take the last bit by foot, staying as low as possible to put off any altercation as long as we can,” Casey says.

Rick nods readily. “Sounds good,” he says. “Then what?”

This time, Casey doesn’t speak.

Michael purses his lips, seeming to search for a way to say it. Finally, he simply states, “We go get Billy.”

Rick waits. When there’s nothing more, he frowns. “That’s it?”

“Were you expecting a doctoral thesis?” Casey snipes. “We’re sort of running low on options at this point. A simple in and out extraction is no longer in the cards. If they already know they’ve been breeched, then a little extra fireworks isn’t going to put a dent in our overall mission.”

Rick frowns. “So, I don’t think I understand--”

Michael sighs. “We take the back entrance, which is less fortified. If luck is on our side, we should be able to down the guards without inciting a firestorm and alerting the rest of the base,” he explains. “We’ll go in with stealth as long as we can.”

“And when we can’t?” Rick asks.

“We’ll shoot our way through,” Casey says. “Simple but still very effective.”

For a second, all Rick can do is look at them. The unwavering commitment in Michael’s face as he sits rigidly in the seat, both hands on the wheel. Casey’s detached candor as he holds a gun in his lap and keeps his eyes out across the savanna in front of them.

Rick knows that Michael and Casey aren’t naive. He knows that they know the risks better than he does. But they don’t have any hesitations. Whatever doubts they harbor, they’re willing to live with them because the bigger picture is what matters.

The bigger picture _matters.  
_  
The fact is they’ll get Billy out. They’ll get Billy out or die trying.

In the end, that’s the only plan that matters.

“So, no questions?” Casey asks finally.

Rick just shakes his head. “Simple but effective,” he says finding his voice strong and sure. “Works for me.”

-o-

It’s hard to tell if he’s still alive or not.

Billy seems to be breathing, but at this point, he’s not so sure. The pain has exceeded his limitations, pitching violently before settling into a pervasive numbness.

Voices, movement, sensation – it all blurs together and fades. It doesn’t mean anything. Billy’s not sure he means anything. His body is broken, his blood is spilt, and his soul seems to be dissipating into the nothingness that follows.

He’s still hanging – at least, he doesn’t remember being moved. Someone lifts his head and Billy ignores it until his eyelid is peeled back and a bright light floods his senses.

It’s so unexpected – so vibrant – that he finches.

Behind the light, someone smirks. “I have found you to be worthless after all, my friend,” the voice says.

Billy wants to shut his eyes but finds he can’t.

“But I have found you to be quite entertaining through this process,” the voice continues, but then the smirk turns condescending, pulled down at the sides. “At least until the meager end. I must say, I expected more at this point.”

It’s a taunt, and one Billy might feel like a stinging barb were he not barely clinging to consciousness.

As it is, he can only hang there, staring against his will as his brain struggles to match the speaking voice with the lips that move in front of him.

The face frowns, then, and a hand reaches up. One finger is licked and it’s brought closer to Billy, scrubbing purposefully at a dried patch of blood on Billy’s face. “Pity,” the voice says with what almost sounds like genuine regret. “We had such a spectacular start. I’m afraid your ending will be far less noteworthy.”

That’s the story of Billy’s life, it seems. Glorious beginnings and burnt out ends. Such great prospects but they never pan out.

With that, Billy’s head is dropped and he can’t stop it from falling. Instead, he focuses his effort on breathing – ragged, struggling breaths that remind him that he is still fighting.

Still, there’s the sound of footsteps, moving away. “Watch him until he dies,” comes the order. “And please note the time of such events. We are taking bets.”

The footsteps resume and fade. The door closes. Billy hears it lock.

Somewhere, the guard left in the room shuffles his feet.

Billy hangs. Eyes closed. Breathing in, breathing out.

There’s nothing else. Nothing else. 

Nothing else to fight for. Nothing else to struggle against. Nothing except the slow, painful fade of death.

-o-

It’s not much of a plan, but their execution has never been more effective or efficient.

They take down the perimeter guards with ease, Michael knocking out the security camera with one long range shot. Getting inside is just as easy, and they don’t make a noise as they move through the halls with ceaseless stealth. Guards go down, one after another. Rick doesn’t look them in the eyes – doesn’t care to. They don’t use bullets – but Casey doesn’t need bullets – and Michael and Rick follow him with zip ties to clean up the mess.

Rick’s always known the ODS to be good – but he’s never known them to be _this_ good. Then again, they’ve never had a cause so worth fighting for.

As they breech the interior, Casey yields, looking to Rick. Rick nods without having to be asked the question and soundlessly takes point, moving them in the direction of the cells where they’d been held. Rick remembers it vividly and tracing the path backward is frighteningly natural.

But Rick can’t forget. Couldn’t forget. It doesn’t matter how long he spent there; what matters is what happened to him while he was here. What happened to Billy.

What’s still happening to Billy.

When they round the corner toward the cells, there’s a new guard on duty. It’s possible to try hand to hand, but Rick doesn’t want to bother.

Hell, there’s no reason to bother. The guard may be different than before, but these are the people who captured and imprisoned him. Who beat Billy…

Rick fires a single shot, straight to the chest.

The guard goes down hard, sprawling on the cement. Rick moves forward, gun still aimed as he approaches. Michael and Casey fall in fast behind him, Casey moving to disarm while Michael keeps watch.

Rick takes the keys from Casey, who has pulled them along with the gun from the guard. Rick unlocks the door and holds his breath as he looks inside.

He’s not sure what he expects – Billy curled up in a ball, Billy sprawled lifelessly, Billy grinning up at him saying, “Just about time.”

But what he sees is--

Nothing.

The cell is empty.

Rick’s heart stutters. The drain is there. An empty bottle of water. But no Billy.

No Billy.

Blinking hard, Rick pulls out. He ignores the look Michael gives him, grabbing Casey and pushing him out of the way. Then he leans over, grabbing the guard by his shirt and shaking him forcefully.

“Where is he?” Rick demands, and he can feel the emotions boiling beneath the surface. He can barely hold onto his fear and so he gives into his rage instead.

The guard shakes his head.

Rick jerks him again. “Where is he?” he says again, more forcefully now. He doesn’t care who hears him – doesn’t even think about it. He just wants — just _needs_ — this answer.

The guard shakes his head then grins. His teeth are bloody, the color is draining from his face, but he looks up at Rick with delight in his fading eyes. “Too late,” he says in broken English. “You are too late.”

Rick shakes him some more and is going to demand an answer again, but the guard’s body goes slack, his eyes open but unseeing.

It’s a bitter thing – Rick’s not sure he’s ever looked into the eyes of a man he’s shot while he dies before and it’s a cold feeling – but it had to be done. It had to be done and now it might be for nothing.

But it can’t be for nothing.

The cell is empty. There’s no body. That just means Billy’s not here. It doesn’t mean--

It doesn’t have to mean--  
 _  
You fight because it’s all you have. It’s the one thing you can’t lose; you have to leave it behind.  
_  
And Rick has. But not this time.

Not this time.

Resolved, Rick puts the man down and straightens. Michael and Casey are watching him. For a second, Rick’s heart is pounding and his ears are ringing. But he pulls himself together and sets his sights ahead. “Follow me,” he says.

He doesn’t wait to see if Michael and Casey will follow him. He’s already down the hall when their footsteps fall in behind him, and Rick doesn’t slow down as he makes his way toward Billy.

Because Rick will find him. One way or another, he’s sure of that.

-o-

It’s instinct, and Rick doesn’t fight it. This is as sure as he’s ever been, even when he has so little to base it on. This is what he’s meant to do. He’s found his purpose, he’s found what matters. He’s _found_ it.

They take down more guards as they go, and Casey is getting twitchy inn the rear. Still, even when Michael’s face is creased with concern, they don’t slow down, keep Rick’s pace as he moves through the halls.

He remembers this vaguely--these winding corridors--and he focuses on Billy and lets that guide him.

When he turns the corner, he knows he’s found it. There’s a guard on duty--who Rick takes out with a single shot--and another one is roused from inside before Michael downs him. As Michael and Casey flank him, Rick continues with his lead. He steps around the guard’s body and tests the door.

It’s still partially ajar and Rick doesn’t look at the bloodied guard as he steps inside.

The room is one Rick remembers. Cold, bleak walls. A single light, hanging from the ceiling.

But that’s not the only thing hanging.

Because there, in the middle of the room, is Billy. He’s strung up by his wrists, which are manacles attached to a chain that hangs from the ceiling. His battered body hangs loose from there, ribs strained and visible above the tattered remains of his clothing. His long legs brush the ground but offer no support.

It’s a macabre image, and for a second, Rick’s frozen.

Because he’s found Billy and he feels like he’s lost him, all over again.

But Billy’s chest is still moving – jagged inhalations and forced exhalations – and though his head is flopped forward, the blood is still fresh on the cuts through his body. There’s still a pool collecting on the ground near his feet.

It takes effort – more than Rick wants to admit – but he finds the courage inside of him and steps forward. It’s not a long distance, but it seems like miles before Rick’s next to Billy.

Up close, the damage is vivid – worse than Rick remembers. The markings are varied and painful – some made with implements that Rick doesn’t want to imagine. Still, he can recognize knife work and whipping, burns and gouges. There’s almost no skin untouched, and what isn’t marred with blood is covered with bruises, suggesting that the damage goes much deeper than Rick can see right now.

Rick thinks about Billy, enduring the torture. Thinks about how much worse it had to be when Rick escaped. Thinks about Billy suffering for him. Thinks of Billy’s platitudes and speeches of encouragement. Thinks about how Billy stayed strong for Rick and there had been no one here to stay strong for Billy when he needed it most. 

Billy suffered here. Alone. What Billy endured--

Rick has to swallow hard against the burn of tears. It’s almost more than he can take, but he’s come this far and he’s not backing out now.

Gently, he swallows his fear and reaches up a hand, pressing two fingers into the side of Billy’s neck.

Billy doesn’t even flinch and his skin is clammy. With Rick’s own heart pounding, it’s hard to feel at first, but the rapid throbbing of Billy’s heart is reassuring. Moving his fingers, Rick uses his hand to lift Billy’s head, looking into his teammate’s face.

Billy’s pallor is wan, the deep circles under his eyes almost impossible to see through the bruising. His nose is clearly broken, blood still dribbling from various cuts. His closed eyelids are even bruised and Rick wishes Billy was awake to see his rescue.

“It’s okay,” Rick says, trying to believe it.

Billy’s expression doesn’t flicker.

“It’s okay,” Rick says again.

Behind him, Michael steps closer. “How is he?” he asks, voice slightly breathless and Rick remembers that finding Billy is only half the battle.

“Bad,” Rick reports, his throat tight. “But alive.”

“Of course he’s alive,” Casey snarks from the doorway where he’s keeping point. “He’s too damn ridiculous to die in a place like this.”

Michael moves even closer, looking up at the chain hanging from the ceiling. “We’ll need to get him down,” he says.

Rick knows that Michael’s right. He knows there are still many practical aspects left to their escape. But somehow, he doesn’t care. He can’t take his eyes off of Billy, can’t stop looking at him, can’t stop hoping to see him wake up.

This is his fault, Rick thinks. This is the cost of Rick’s freedom. Logically, Rick knows it was Billy’s only hope of surviving, but the reality of it still hits hard. Billy took on more than his share for Rick, and Rick left Billy to bear the rest of it. It doesn’t seem fair and even if it’s no one’s fault, it’s still hard to accept.

Michael comes closer still, now with a lock pick. He makes short work of the lock and Rick moves instinctively forward to brace Billy as the manacle is released. With one arm free, Billy’s weight staggers, his body slumping slightly. Rick works to ease the pressure on his other arm as Michael frees it. With both arms free, Billy slumps in earnest, his entire weight crashing downward.

It’s all Rick can do to hold onto him.

Billy’s substantially larger than Rick, and the extra dead weight is unwieldy. Still, Rick works to brace himself, maneuvering Billy’s weight as carefully as he can. It takes some effort – and it’s probably not a pretty picture – but Rick finagles himself downward, easing Billy down with him.

On the ground, Billy’s head flops back, his arms dragging on the ground. Rick moves one hand to cushion Billy’s head as he lowers him all the way to the ground.

“We need to move,” Casey says from the doorway, and if he sounds annoyed, Rick knows it’s only because he’s getting anxious about making a clean getaway.

“Give us a second,” Michael hisses back, stepping around so he’s on the other side of Billy.

On the ground, Billy is gasping, his chest almost heaving for air. His face is slack, but Rick can still see the evidence of pain around his eyes and his mouth, even in unconsciousness.

“We’ll need to carry him--” Michael begins.

Rick nods tightly, eyes still fixed on Billy’s features. “I got him.”

Michael’s face keeps its composure, but there’s still surprise in his eyes. “He’s not exactly a lightweight,” he says cautiously.

Rick looks up, meets Michael’s eyes with intensity. “I got him,” he says again.

This time, Michael hesitates only a second before he nods. “Okay, then,” he says, backing away. “Let’s go.”

Jaw clenched, Rick looks at Billy again. Looks at the broken body, the pale face, and remembers his words. “We’re still fighting,” Rick tells him as he hoists Billy back up. “We won’t stop fighting.”

-o-

It’s not easy work – Billy’s height is a factor and Rick’s never actually carried someone in a fireman’s carry before. It takes most of Rick’s strength just to stay upright, one hand wrapped around Billy’s leg and the other in front of him for balance. By the time they’re down the hall, Rick’s shoulders ache and his body begins to protest, but he doesn’t listen to any of it.

Instead, he stays close to Michael, who has taken up point, and keeps himself aware of Casey, who is sweeping their rear at Rick’s heels.

Their exit is messy – and Rick has no means of cover while he carries Billy through the small skirmishes that mount.

At the exit, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Rick has to stay out of sight, tucking himself against the wall stiffly, keeping Billy out of the line of fire as Michael and Casey lay down alternating rounds of fire. It seems to take forever for it to die down, and when Michael gets on his feet and yells, “Let’s go!” Rick doesn’t think twice

It’s a blind charge, almost – Rick remembers well. They keep going, stepping over bodies and heading to the doors and out.

Rick’s blinking blindly before he realizes that they’re in the open. He doesn’t wait for his eyes to focus as he keeps running, his arm still tight around Billy as he follows Michael and Casey.

When his eyes are working, Rick sees Michael at a car. He’s jerry rigging the steering well even as Casey fires behind them.

Rick ignores both of them, sweeping around to the far side and fumbling for the back door. It’s not locked, and the momentum makes Billy hard to hold on to, but Rick doesn’t fumble as the door swings open.

Bullets ding the car and Rick ducks, almost dumping Billy into the seat. He shoves harder than he wants to, but the need to get out of there is more pressing than anything.

The engine roars to a start and Rick scrambles inside, mindful of Billy as he takes a position in back.

Casey opens the passenger door, still firing while he climbs inside.

Michael doesn’t wait for them to be secured as he starts to pull away and Casey pulls off a few last shots while the car skids wildly toward the exit.

The car crashes through the security gates – engine lurching – but they don’t slow down. The car goes faster – Rick can feel the engine pulling against the metal – and Rick sees the savanna speeding by them.

It’s happening again. Freedom is in his grasp, so sudden and so jarring that Rick almost doesn’t know how to compute it. Only this time, they’re all free. They’re all together. They all made it.

Rick’s gaze falls and he looks at Billy again. The Scotsman is still where Rick shoved him, body twisted unnaturally in the seat. Frowning, Rick takes the time to untangle Billy’s limbs, rearranging him carefully even as the car jerks and swerves on their path toward freedom.

When Billy’s in a comfortable position, it doesn’t seem like enough. Because even with his limbs straight and his head relaxed, Billy still looks bad. He still looks more than bad – almost dead.

It’s hard to see. Hard to think that they can come so far, find so much, and maybe not have it be enough.

But it has to be enough. Rick escaped and Billy survived and they have to finish this. 

Billy takes a strained breath, then another. Rick can hear the wheezes even over the roar of the road and the thudding of his heart.

They have to.

Throat tight, Rick doesn’t cry. He just sits there, stiff in the back seat while the car races on, and tells himself that truth over and over again.

-o-

Rick doesn’t notice when the savanna gives way to city. He doesn’t even see the hospital as Michael speeds toward it. His eyes are fixed on Billy, watching for his breath, memorizing every wound and wondering what it must have felt like.

The car jolts to a stop and Rick has to brace himself from crashing on top of Billy. Michael and Casey have their doors open before Rick even realizes where they are.

By the time the revelation comes to him Billy is already being pulled out. There are doctors and nurses and a stretcher and everyone is talking and Rick feels himself slipping as he tries to keep up.

It takes work to extricate himself from the car, and when he’s out, Billy’s already being wheeled inside. The blood looks garish on the white gurney and the doctors are calling things out with concern and Billy doesn’t move – doesn’t even twitch – as he’s wheeled inside.

Rick’s instincts are to follow, but Michael’s hand holds him back.

Surprised, Rick looks at his team leader.

Michael’s face is pinched and tired. He shakes his head. “That’s all we can do for him now,” he says.

Rick blinks, almost uncomprehendingly.

Casey is standing on the other side of him. “Trust us,” he says, and even though his voice is hard, there’s something of comfort in it as well.

Rick stares at the door and thinks of Billy. Alone with strangers again. He takes a staggered breath.

Michael’s hand squeezes his arm. “You found him,” he says. “That’s all you could do.”

Rick still stands, still stares. He feels Michael and Casey, shoulder to shoulder with him, and takes comfort in their strength. They’re not alone in this, and Rick likes to think that Billy’s not alone anymore either.

Michael’s right, of course. Rick’s done everything he can.

But as he stands there and thinks of Billy’s sacrifices, he can only hope that it’s enough.

-o-

Ever since his capture, Rick has had trouble keeping track of time. Between unconsciousness and the long stretches of isolation, the give and take of seconds and hours has blurred to him, melting into periods of too long and not long enough.

The waiting room isn’t so bad, in theory. The chairs aren’t luxurious, but they’ve got cushions. And this time he has company.

Michael comes and goes, making phone calls. Casey doesn’t move next to him, so still that he could be mistaken for a statue. Michael gives him something to drink; Casey makes him eat a candy bar.

Still, this wait is harder than the rest.

Because there’s nothing Rick can do. He can’t plot his escape or watch over Billy while he sleeps. He can’t run for his life or hatch a plot to bring Billy back.

The open waiting room is full of people and noise, but it’s as quiet and desolate as the four cement walls of Rick’s imprisonment.

“What if he doesn’t make it?” Rick asks.

Next to him, Michael takes a breath. “There’s no reason to think he won’t.”

Rick closes his eyes, fighting against a swell of nausea. “He was tortured,” he says, the words hard to say. He shakes his head, opening his eyes. “What they did to him--”

“Torture is more psychological than physical in its intentions,” Casey supplies from the other side. “The worse someone is hurt physically, the more certain you can be of their fortitude.”

It’s something to consider. Because as broken as Billy was, he was still breathing. Billy’s the one who said it – you fight because it’s all you have.

You fight.

But then he thinks of Billy, bleeding in the back seat, each breath more uncertain than the last. “Everyone breaks,” he says. “One way or another.”

He half expects them to disagree. Instead, Michael sighs. “It’s true,” he says. “The body isn’t designed to hold up under everything.”

“So what if Billy doesn’t make it?” Rick asks again, and he looks at Michael earnestly this time.

Michael shrugs, almost helpless. “Then we fight for him,” he says.

“That means,” Casey interjects, leaning somewhat closer. “We don’t doubt him, even when the odds look bad.”

“Because he wouldn’t doubt us,” Michael says.

Rick breathes and tries to make sense of it. He looks down at his hands, his own feelings of frustration and futility burning deep inside. “I just feel so helpless,” he says. “It’s like I’m locked in that cell, watching them drag Billy away all over again.”

Michael and Casey exchange a look.

Finally, Michael continues. “None of us were ever looking for a team,” he says. “I spent years as a solo agent. Casey even more. Teamwork requires extra skill and coordination, more loose ends to worry about tying up. It’s messier and riskier. But what we found here — what we found in the ODS — is worth it.”

“The problem is,” Casey continues for him. “That what you find in a team comes with the added risk of loss. You can’t have the support of a team without the risk of seeing them put into jeopardy.” He pauses and shrugs. “Or worse.”

Rick swallows hard. “So why do it?”

“Well, we’ve each tried to ignore it,” Michael explains. “We’ve hazed new people out the door and tried to keep our personal lives out of the office.”

“But Billy’s so damn exuberant,” Casey gripes. “It’s like trying to hit a puppy. You just can’t bring yourself to do it, no matter how many times you want to.”

“And it’s how we know you belong with us,” Michael adds. “Billy saw it from the start, I think, but it’s taken the rest of us a little more time to accept it.”

“But you’re one of us,” Casey says. “You found yourself a team, for better or worse.”

“And no matter what we go through--no matter what Billy goes through – we won’t lose sight of that,” Michael concludes, his gaze lingering on Rick.

It’s true, Rick realizes. It’s all true. What he’s found in his time at the CIA isn’t his own strength or abilities – it’s his team. It’s how they make each other better, how they fill in the gaps for each other. It’s how when one of them is lost, the others don’t stop to find them. It’s four working parts to make a whole, and it means more than any mission or any objective.

It means everything.

Rick doesn’t know why it’s taken him so long to figure that out, why he needed Michael and Casey to spell it out, why Billy needed to prove it with his blood and sacrifice. But he’s found it now. He’s found it just in time to face the reality that he might lose it just that fast.

-o-

When the doctor finally comes to talk to them, Rick is almost ready for the worst. It’s not the worst, but as Rick tries to translate the details, it almost feels that bad.

Billy’s alive – and that’s the critical element – but he’s a mess. While the vast majority of the cuts and abrasions are superficial, there are some that were deep enough to cause possible damage. There’s some internal bleeds that the doctors have tried to correct but will have to continue to watch and see. Fortunately most of the damage to his face will heal without cosmetic procedures – although his nose is badly broken – but the rest of his body will likely never look the same.

All of this is bad, but the doctor’s biggest concern long term is the damage to Billy’s tendons in his hands and wrists. They’ve done what they can to repair the damage, but it’s going to be a long road to see if the nerves and muscles heal in a way that gives Billy real mobility again.

To make matters worse, a number of the wounds are badly infected and Billy’s fighting a moderate fever, which may be threatening to compromise his internal organs if it keeps up.

The bottom line is that while Billy’s alive, it’s going to be a struggle to keep him that way. And even if he survives, there’s no guarantee he’ll have the same quality of life as before.

It’s a weighty prognosis, and Rick feels the weight of it on his shoulders. It’s not just that Billy could still die for him; it’s the fact that Billy may survive but not really recover that he doesn’t know how to deal with.

Next to him, Casey is stoic. Michael asks, “Can we see him?”

When the doctor explains one at a time, no one stops Rick when he goes first. 

“He’d want to know you’re okay,” Michael tells him.

“You’re the only one capable of appealing to his inalienable sense of optimism at a time like this,” Casey adds.

Rick smiles – or tries to. But as he walks down the hallway after a nurse, it’s a cold, stiff walk that scares Rick more than the gun-filled corridors of the compound and the lion-ridden savanna. Those times, he knew what he was going to find.

This time, Rick’s not so sure.

-o-

At Billy’s bedside, Rick finds himself at a loss. Because he’s seen Billy through a lot of horrible things over the last few days. He’s seen Billy beaten, seen him in pain. He’s seen him struggle to eat and pass out on a whim. He’s seen him curled up and broken, hanging and limp. He’s seem him laugh through the pain and stay strong through the worst of it.

But now--

Now Billy’s just still. Swathed in bandages and stretched out on a hospital bed. There are still cuts exposed – cleaned but angry red – and Rick can’t even count the number of tubes and wires attached to the Scotsman’s body.

His tattered shirt is entirely gone and it hasn’t been replaced. The thin sheet covers him up to the waist, and Rick can see that Billy has lost weight. His ribs are more prominent than Rick thinks they should be, and there are hollows in his cheeks, even as his eyes are closed in the semblance of sleep.

It’s not quite sleep, though, and Rick is all too aware of the difference. The beeping monitors and whirring machines are a dead giveaway, and Rick feels uneasy at the sight of the ventilator protruding from Billy’s mouth, which looks anything but comfortable.

Billy would complain about it, if he could. He can’t – obviously – and Rick finds himself wishing for the silly platitudes and friendly overtures. Sometimes they seem entirely misplaced, but Rick misses the comfort and reassurance they offer. He might try to offer Billy the same if he were awake to appreciate it.

He’s not. Given all Billy’s been through, Rick thinks that might be for the best. Billy’s been through enough pain that he probably doesn’t deserve to feel the post-surgery effects or the overwhelming life saving measures enacting just to keep him breathing.

Yet, it’s not easy. None of this has been easy, not since the compound, not since they got to Africa, not since Rick found that critical piece of intel that made all of this seem viable. If he’d known then, he might not have planned this mission.

It wouldn’t have made a difference, though. Michael, Casey, and Billy – they would have planned the mission the same. Especially Billy, even if he’d known that this would be the outcome.

That’s what makes them different, Rick knows. That’s what makes their jobs so important. There are risks – there have to be risks—

Standing there, watching Billy fight to live, it’s hard to believe that it’s worth it.

It’s harder still to accept that it isn’t.

The fight has to be worth something. They have to be holding on to something that matters. Otherwise Billy wouldn’t have tried so hard to save Rick back in the compound. Rick wouldn’t have battled everything in the world and inside himself to bring Casey and Michael back to rescue him. They wouldn’t still be here, in this hospital, ignoring the odds of a full recovery and clinging to the simple fact that Billy’s made it this far.

Because Billy has made it this far, and Rick has to believe that he still has something left to fight with.

Looking at Billy, though, it’s hard to believe. The Scotsman looks bad and Rick feels his resolve falter.

Shaking his head, he pushes it back. Moving closer, he gently scoops up Billy’s hand, holding it tightly in his own. “You fight,” he says, voice barely a whisper even as it cracks on the words. He remembers Billy’s face when he told him the same, he remembers Billy’s resolve, his veracity, his certainty. Rick finds that inside of him and holds on to it with all he has.

“You fight,” he says again, stronger this time. “You fight because it’s all you have. They could take your identity or your body. And they almost took your life and they may have taken a little bit of your soul. But you still have your will. They can’t take that. You didn’t surrender it then, and you can’t surrender it now. You may have lost the rest, but you can’t lose that.”

Billy doesn’t stir, the machines hissing in equal turns.

Rick blinks his burning eyes and makes himself finish. Not for his sake, but for Billy’s. “So you fight,” he says again, and his voice is shaky but certain. “Just like we fought for you. You fight for us. One last time, okay?”

The question hangs, lingering unanswered in the stillness. Billy doesn’t move, but he doesn’t have to. Rick knows him well enough to know what Billy’s answer is and he shows it in the beating of his heart as he takes breath after breath with the ventilator’s help.

-o-

The hours turn into days, and a rhythm develops that is both the same and different. Rick’s still waiting, sitting idly by while Billy suffers and fights, and when he wonders why it’s so hard, he remembers how Billy explained that not all torture is physical.

And it is torture, sitting there and waiting. He takes alternating turns with Michael and Casey, and they all talk but don’t know quite what to say. Michael tells stories about first meeting Billy and Casey grouses about some of their worst missions together and when Rick laughs at the exploits, it aches in his chest.

Billy’s prognosis is still complicated, even as he improves. The doctors are cautious in their optimism, and are always sure to remind the team that Billy’s struggles will only compound once he’s awake and starts to regain the ability to move. There will be long delays, they warn, and it’s not going to be easy.

As if anything up to this point has been easy.

Rick doesn’t think about it like that, though. He can’t focus on the long term when all he wants is for Billy to wake up.

“He’ll wake up,” Michael says to no one in particular.

“He’ll just take his own sweet time about it,” Casey harrumphs in return.

Rick believes them both as best he can but he doesn’t need their comfort because he knows that Billy fought too long and hard to give up now.

He believes that because he believed Billy back in that cell. He believes it because it’s all he has, all Billy has. Mostly, he just believes.

-o-

Rick only sleeps because there’s nothing else to do, and he’s come to know the four bleak corners of Billy’s hospital room as well as the sullen corners of their cell. There’s no lock on the door but he still can’t leave, and it’s hard to keep himself from despair while he waits for something to change.

Michael is handling issues on the phone with Langley. Casey has been relegated to sleeping in the hotel room they’re renting but have hardly used. Rick hasn’t left, though. Won’t leave.

Billy’s condition improves, but he’s still in bad shape. The doctor’s think he’ll live but have made no promises about recovery timelines or quality of life. The ventilator is removed and his sedation is reduced, and Billy lies pliant through it all.

Waking and sleeping are much the same. Consciousness only reminds him of how perilous the situation is and sleep is a steady stream of dreams and nightmares he doesn’t know how to contend with.

So when he wakes to the sound of movement, he doesn’t think much of it. He thinks it’s a doctor or a nurse, or Michael or Casey coming back early. He thinks it’s anything except what it is.

“Billy?” Rick asks, because he’s too surprised to believe it.

But it’s real. Billy’s blinking at the ceiling, eyes wide and bleary and confused. His chest is heaving a bit with the exertion and his fingers flex at his sides.

“Billy,” Rick says again, scrambling to move forward and get in Billy’s line of sight.

It takes a moment for Billy’s eyes to focus, and another long moment after that before any kind of recognition dawns. When it does, Billy’s brows furrow and his eyes grow damp.

It’s not the reaction Rick expects and for a second, he doesn’t know what to do. “Hey,” he says finally, searching for the words. “It’s okay.”

Billy takes a stuttering breath and nods his head, visibly pulling himself together. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. He swallows hard and tries again. This time the words are strained and garbled, but Rick still understands them. “I don’t know where I am,” Billy admits.

It’s not the roiling enthusiasm that is normally such a big part of Billy’s persona. It’s not even couched in guises meant to protect Billy or Rick or both of them. It’s just a naked, real statement – a reality of being lost that Rick suddenly understands all too well.

Pushing back his own emotions – because this has been a long and tumultuous mission and it’s not over yet – Rick smiles and grips Billy’s arm to let him know he’s really there. “It’s okay,” he says. “I know just where you are.”

Billy holds his eyes and then nods imperceptibly. It’s a clear struggle for him to stay awake and Rick doesn’t have the heart to force him to endure consciousness more than he’s able.

Still, Rick doesn’t look away and doesn’t let go. “I found you,” he says while Billy’s eyes blink slower. And he means that – and so much more. “I found you.”

Billy relaxes at that, easing back into sleep. Rick’s still there, holding on and holding fast, as the seconds give way to minutes and Billy finds his way back home.

EPILOGUE

The trip home isn’t as momentous as it seems like it should be. Billy is transferred directly to Georgetown, where he’s put in a long term recovery unit. The ODS is officially put back to work, but Rick spends more of his time at the hospital than on the job and he dares Higgins to say anything about it.

In this, the hours are long. Rick spends endless minutes in Billy’s empty hospital room, waiting him to come back from his latest round of therapy. He’s still regaining the use of his feet and it’s still a struggle to make the fingers on his right hand curl into a fist. His stamina is lacking and he still needs a few more surgeries before the doctors will feel good about the long term prospects for his left ankle.

Rick waits, though. Counts the seconds as they pass and is ready and waiting when he hears the sound of Billy’s wheelchair being pushed down the hall. The nurse helps ease Billy back into bed, where he collapses unceremoniously, his face pale and drawn, the shadows of bruises still visible on the sunken skin.

They make light conversation as Billy drifts off to sleep and Rick is still there when dinner is served and Billy forces himself to eat.

Over time, Rick starts helping with the therapy, sees it when Billy takes his first steps again and as he starts to rebuild his muscle strength. It’s hard work, and for as hard as it is for Billy to push himself to his limits, it’s harder still for Rick to sit there and make him endure it with nothing more than a strong shoulder and an encouraging word.

Overall, it’s long and it’s hard. Billy struggles with each milestone more than Rick expects him to. Most days, he will still laugh and tell stories to pass the time, but there’s a growing sense of withdrawal as each day passes. Rick sees it in the little things, the small in between moments when Billy thinks no one is watching. He puts on his best for Michael and Casey, but Rick is there enough to see more of the truth, and Rick realizes now more than ever just how badly Billy has suffered – in his torture and in this aftermath.

It renews Rick’s resolve. He comes every day now, almost takes a leave from work. He forgoes missions and completes his paperwork remotely to stay by Billy every day of his recovery.

Some days are successes.

Others aren’t.

Some days, Billy surprises them all.

Other days, he can barely control his pain and frustration.

Today, Billy’s supposed to walk a mile through the hospital’s corridors, but only half way there, he’s spent. He’s sweating and pale, breathing ragged and strained. The scars on his body are healing but visible, and while Billy will usually shrug most failures away with a self deprecating smile, this time he just collapses.

Rick is there in an instant to prop him up. “I got you,” he says. “It’s okay.”

Slack against Rick, Billy laughs bitterly. “That’s funny,” he wheezes.

Rick frowns. “What?”

“Just you, saying it’s okay,” he says.

“You just have to get back up,” Rick says. “You can finish it--”

Billy barks another harsh laugh. “You say that like it’s so simple.”

“It is,” Rick contends.

Billy sighs. “I’m practically an invalid,” he says. “All my years of training and service and now I can’t even walk in a damn circle without my entire body falling apart. What’s the bloody point anyway? At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I’m ever deemed field worthy again.”

It’s a surprising gruffness from Billy, who usually faces things with such a sunny and vibrant outlook. But the months have been hard on Billy, and his own weaknesses have taken a toll on the Scotsman’s usually buoyant personality. Rick knows he misses work--knows he misses holding his own on the team and feeling like a valued part of something bigger than himself--but it hasn’t struck Rick just how much Billy is struggling until right then.

Because this is Billy giving up. Lying in Rick’s arms and, after everything, finally admitting defeat. 

And Rick feels his heart break. Because it has been a hard road and it’s been harder than any of them might have imagined. And Rick understands – he understands how much Billy has fought and lost, how every small gain Billy’s eked out has come at a price that Rick can’t quite imagine paying.

So his heart breaks and he understands and that’s why Rick can’t sit idly by and listen to it.

Adamant, he hardens his face and shakes his head. “That’s bull shit,” he says flat out.

It’s Billy’s turn to frown, clearly taken aback by Rick’s stolid response.

“It’s a cop out,” Rick continues, not even bothering to let Billy reply.

Billy’s anger drains slightly and his features reveal the deep exhaustion and demoralization that the Scotsman has kept barely at bay since he woke up in the hospital all those months ago. He’s hidden it well all this time, but Billy has no facades left to cover it “I just don’t have the will to overcome it anymore,” he says honestly.

Rick shakes his head anyway, holding Billy’s gaze and refusing to be deterred. “Bull shit,” he says again. “You fight.”

“I can hardly walk!” Billy protests, gesturing helplessly at his legs.

“You still fight,” Rick insists.

Billy looks like he may genuinely despair for a moment. “Why?”

And it’s one of the few times since he’s met Billy that he’s asked a question he doesn’t already know the answer to. That he’s asked a question of Rick that he really _needs_ the answer to.

“Because it’s all you have,” Rick tells him, not even hesitating. “They can take your identity. They can take your body. They can even take your life or your soul, but they can’t take your will.” He shakes his head. “Not unless you surrender it. It’s the one thing you can’t lose.”

Billy is watching him, eyes watery. A smile spreads tiredly across his face. “Unless you leave it behind.”

“And you won’t,” Rick says with force.

“What if I already have?” Billy asks, and normally it’d be laced with humor or sarcasm, but Billy still just wants to know.

“You haven’t.”

“How can you be sure?” 

It’s such an innocent and heavy question, laden with need and uncertainty that Rick isn’t used to hearing. He’s usually the new guy, still scrabbling for advice and trying to prove himself to his teammates. But this is different--he’s different, Billy’s different, the team’s different--and some of it is for worse but not all of it.

“Because if you did, I’d carry it for you until you were ready to find it again,” Rick says. “So you’ll fight. We’ll fight. Together.”

Billy’s expression wavers for a long moment, and then he swallows hard. “You know,” he says. “If I’d known you were going to take that speech so seriously, I might have reconsidered all of its implications.”

Rick laughs, his chest tight with emotion, but his gaze doesn’t flicker. “You were right,” he says. “Just like I am now.”

Billy nods, wetting his lips. “Aye,” he says. “I suppose that’s true.”

“So,” Rick replies, rallying his own strength for Billy’s sake. “Are you ready to get up?”

Billy collects a breath and lets it out wearily. “Somehow I don’t think I have much say in the matter,” he says, even as he starts to push himself back up.

“No,” Rick says, moving to support him. “I don’t suppose you do.”

It takes effort to get Billy back to his feet, and even then, the Scotsman is unsteady. The rest of the mile is tedious, and by the end, Rick is half supporting Billy’s weight as he limps along. Rick helps him back to his room in a wheelchair and eases Billy back into his bed, where the taller man is half asleep before he hits the pillow.

Rick settles into a chair next to the bed. In the dimness, Billy watches him in pure exhaustion. “Thank you,” he says. “For finding me.”

Rick just smiles, keeping steady in his post. This is where he’s supposed to be, what he’s supposed to do. More than serving his country, more than being a spy. Just being part of the ODS, being a friend. “Hey,” he says with a shrug. “I’m just returning the favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to penless for her beta work and supportive. And to everyone who read, I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
